What We Do Behind Doors That Don't Close
by Plasmodesmata
Summary: After the fall of Organization XIII, the shells of the Nobodies reformed and were scattered across worlds, void of their powers. Marluxia holds the only way to reconnect the worlds to seek what he lost and grieve for the cruelties he inflicted.
1. Prologue

In one last great effort to defeat what sought to tear them down, Organization XIII once more rose from the ashes. Their deaths before, like all things that could not be measured, neither qualitatively or quantitatively, had been a façade. Surely the silly boy knew that the most powerful (incomplete as they may have been) beings could not be destroyed by mere tussles. Surely he knew; they used darkness to facilitate their return, and they would not bow.

So self-righteous, so convinced, they were, those twelve of them standing (mostly) there. All except Roxas, who had found his birth inside the Keyblade Bearer. Just those twelve.

Xemnas bore the most resemblance to his old self. Perhaps he was the strongest, or perhaps he was just more accepting than the others. And Demyx had only cracked a few fingers from his right hand.

But there were others: Vexen was half-complete. His face was a porcelain doll that had been dropped, smashed. Even Xigbar was missing parts. And Xaldin had been left with just a torso.

Why had this happened? All of them had been left as simple, hollow paper dolls. They moved, they talked, they deliberated, and yet all that seemed to pour out of the holes in their bodies was darkness. But never minding that they were shattered; some could still fight. If they all faced Sora at once (what they should have, arguably, done in the first place), surely he could be forced to bow.

But they were brittle, brittle people. Luxord went first. His cards faded into darkness, and this time, they would not be coming back. He, however, splintered into tiny glass bits, each one painted with a piece of Luxord upon it. Zexion could not help but notice this, as a shard of what was once the Gambler of Fate's eye landed at his foot (he only had one that this point—Lexaeus was holding up the rest of him).

So this is what they would become, should they all be defeated. Small pieces, inconsequential and littering the arena. And the shards would turn to chips. And the chips would turn to fragments. And the fragments would turn to sand. And the sand would turn to dust.

The largest piece of Demyx (one of his arms—it had been locked and raised above his head as Sora's strike had landed to his body), hit Larxene in the back of her head. And in that one moment, both of them were gone.

Lexaeus shattered while shielding Zexion, his usually substantial bulk having been whittled down to nothing. Without his protector and support, Zexion fell. And he died where he fell, the same blow that Sora had killed Lexaeus with, blade cutting through crystalline bits until fracturing the material of the Schemer's abdomen. There was no fighting chance.

Saix had faired the best—he managed to knock Sora over. But he, too, was wrecked.

Vexen was quick; perhaps quicker than before, as he was missing half of his body. But he was uncoordinated and when the keyblade fell, it was as though he had not been there at all.

It was at that point that they began to realize they were (as Xigbar so eloquently put it at the time, out-of-place as it was) 'verily fucked.' A mere adolescent had defeated them when they had been strong and functioning—what had made them think that they could defeat him while they were literally shells oozing of darkness?

While the broken bits of each member were crunched underfoot, all else faded. Weapons, robes (or what had been left of them, anyway). All gone, dead.

Xaldin, Axel, Xemnas, Xigbar, Marluxia. The last of them died in that order. Marluxia, strong-willed and cunning as he was, took conflict with the Keyblade warrior last. He was missing only one part of his old self: his face. Vain as he had been, it was a fitting purgatory.

As his scythe clashed with that of Sora's, everything that had ever been slain by it revolted. Perhaps that was why Marluxia's scythe did not fade. It ricocheted into splinters. Instead of fading, a shining shard of that rose petal pink blade buried itself in the Assassin's side. It was not the keyblade that ended him, but his own weapon.

Somehow, he rather likened it to having the last laugh.

Organization XIII no longer existed as Nobodies.


	2. Ashes, Ashes, We All Fall Down

The pieces and bits of what had once been Organization XIII had turned into shards. And the shards had turned into chips. And the chips had turned into fragments. And the fragments turned into sand. And the sand had turned into dust.

* * *

Three years later, one particularly unextrordinary universe turned. Just a fraction; no one in the world to which it belonged noticed. No one even on the planet upon which it happened even noticed. Not even anyone on the continent, or in the town. No one on the street even flicked an eyelash from their daily ritual. No one, not even the young man (more of a boy, really) who was bent over the flowerbeds in his yard. He was concentrating very, very hard, but not on the flowers at all. The flowers were inconsequential—in fact, they looked a little sickly. This could have been because there was very little dirt in this garden. The boy kneeling there seemed to have purposefully piled it with gravel and large rocks. He arranged them like he arranged his silverware and china, so it didn't bother the neighbors in the least. One man's rock garden was his own business.

The turn in the universe was the result of one person, and one person only. He was currently standing across the street from the young male and his rock garden and was watching him with clear blue eyes. He had been wearing a hat, but he removed it once he saw that his brilliant pink hair would not be offending anyone at that moment.

The man with pink hair was upwind of the boy with the rock garden, and when he removed his hat, it was only a few seconds later that the boy froze, hands cupping a large flat stone. His fingernails grated against the granite for a moment as he took another whiff. Something was amiss. Something was familiar.

Their eyes never met. In fact, the boy might as well have never even noticed him. But the man with the pink hair knew better. He knew this boy. _Knew_ him. And he could read the way his nostrils flared and the way his shoulders tensed. It took him a half hour, but he finally approached, taking long, even steps before he was standing behind the boy and he became the shadow casting itself across the garden. He said nothing.

"Marluxia," the boy said.

"Zexion."

There was another silence where both figures contemplated what to do next. It was Marluxia that supposed he had to make the first move, as he had been the one to approach in the first place. "You like gardening now?"

Zexion had to admit, he was a little affronted. Three years—three lonely years—and all this man could say was...that? Just as quietly, he affirmed, "It's not the flowers. It's the rocks."

"I see. You always did have an affinity for Earth."

It was then that Zexion could take it no longer. He rose to his feet and turned around to get a proper look at the man and assess what he had never before dared himself to begin to speculate: how they had changed.

Marluxia was dressed in black, wide-brimmed hat clutched to his chest still. There was no physical shift—pink hair, lips the color of forgotten strawberries, and eyes that could make any man rethink their personal constitution. And, oh, how those eyes had been so cruel, slitted and lazy to even the most terrible cries for mercy. But now, Zexion noticed, now they were simply imploring. Whatever cruelty had been there surely must have been hastily relocated upstage of those masterfully jaded eyes.

The other man simply gave Zexion an up and down glance. "You've not gotten any taller."

It was that statement that seemed to break the ice. Immediately, the boy huffed and let his eyebrows knit together. "A quarter inch, I'll have you know; I've grown a quarter inch."

The lean to the larger-framed man gave away the fact that he had been tense, and now was starting to relax. But his gaze was still sharp, entreating. "It's been a long time, Zexion. I know you did not expect me here."

"I didn't," he shook his head, almost in wonderment of the man who stood before him. "You can't tell me you've been on this same world all along. And all of a sudden just now, you decided to—"

"No," Marluxia nearly scoffed, as if the mere idea had been silly in the first place. "It is nothing like that at all." Where his eyes had been locked to the space where Zexion's hair covered his forehead, they suddenly flickered to house that stood behind them, casting a half-shadow upon the garden. "I can speak to you about it, if you'd like." '_Inside_,' he almost added, but knew Zexion well enough to know manners were first and foremost. Just like in Castle Oblivion when Marluxia would be invited in the illusionist's room, whether he had wanted him there or not, even when he knew what would transpire beyond those doors for the hour to follow.

"Please," Zexion took a few reassuring steps backwards, as if on cue. "Come inside. I will get you something to drink."

There was nothing pleasant about their interaction, nothing too friendly; they were not friends. But it was business-like, clipped and direct. How else could they reach into themselves? It was like being dipped back into cold water, limbs becoming brittle once more where they refused to remember what they knew they remembered and they refused to act upon the old memories that they shared, lest the other perhaps not remember, even though they knew quite well they were thinking the same things.

Beyond the threshold of the front doorway, Marluxia was sure to catch every little detail, every sign. He noticed right away how absurdly _normal_ it was. There was a painting of a cornucopia on the wall facing the door, half-concealed with a coat hanger that had a black umbrella hooked on it. There were no shoes or anything cluttering the hall, and Marluxia immediately noticed the lack of _things_. There were places to put things, of course. Shelves and tables and counters (barren bookshelves). But as he followed Zexion to the kitchen, he noticed even the pot rack hanging over the middle island was empty.

"Did you just move in?" Marluxia asked in a murmured voice, taking a seat where Zexion had gestured he place himself.

"No." His body was bent double, reaching down to drag a large plate from a cabinet below (two shelves of which were empty, Marluxia noted in peering around the curve of Zexion's hip). "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. I'm curious as to how you've…faired like this." Alone. Empty. Isolated.

"Well," Zexion tightened his lips in a way that was very telling. "It was trying at first. But I made due. People are easy to persuade, I suppose. I've been in this house the entire time. Small, but nothing more than I need or want." As he spoke, he somehow drew enough objects from somewhere (because he certainly didn't keep them in his house, void as it was, apparently) to set out a tray of pastries out before Marluxia, followed by a tall glass of ice water. He then sat himself down, too, lacking any desire to stand through what he hoped would be a clear and concise explanation as to what in the name of darkness Marluxia, former Lord of Castle Oblivion, was doing in his, the former Leader of the Underground of Castle Oblivion's, front yard at approximately 10:48 that morning, a Tuesday. It had been a rather nice Tuesday, too, until he had showed up. Now it had the potential to be quite dreadful.

Marluxia eyed the sweets. "Pastries? Really, Zexion. I didn't know you were so inclined toward this sort of fare."

"I'm not. I own a shop down in town that sells these. Seems a waste not to try at least take some of the leftovers home once in a while." It was a little embarrassing, he had to admit. It was such a quaint and insignificant occupation. Demoted from a grand mastermind, schemer of an all-conquering organization to a pastry shop owner. He wondered if Marluxia had felt such a blow to his ego. Oh, and what a grand ego that man had. Grand and fragile.

Taking a brisk (if not rather amused) bite of a teacake, Marluxia tipped his head and listened. "So I see you've moved on."

Zexion scolded. "We won't be able to 'move on,' Marluxia. What happened is not something any of us will be able to forget. The best we can do is cope with what we are now forced to endure." Funny how he used the word 'we,' even though Marluxia was the first he had seen in three years. He knew nothing of what had happened to the others. Part of him had gone through the years trying to believe he was the only one left alive. No one to tell, no one to believe him, Zexion almost considered madness. As if he had woken up one morning remembering things that had been an elaborate dream that had stuck with him for longer than dreams really should have. A condition, a mental disorder.

The elephant in the room finally settled before them when their eyes met over the table.

"How did you get here?"

Marluxia set his glass down on the table with a slight noise. He said nothing, but reached into the collar of his shirt to draw out a simple line of cord. On the tip was fastened a small shard, perhaps as big as a thumbnail. It was a piece of metal, tinged with a shade of pink no metal had ever been able to acquire, save for the blade of one very, very lethal weapon.

Zexion's mouth formed a slightly parted shape, trying not to draw conclusions. But in the end, all he could do was look into that expectant face. "Your scythe? But how? How did you get that out of Never Was?"

"I didn't try to. I was the last to face the Keyblade Bearer. He shattered my weapon instead of killing me. This imbedded itself in my chest. The only thing that came with me in this…afterlife. Whatever this is."

As if unable to believe it as Marluxia told it, Zexion kept his eyes fixed on the shard. A part of him felt jealousy—why was it that _Marluxia_, of all the self-glorifying bastards, got to keep part of his weapon, his protection? "And how does this explain your interruption of my morning?"

A corner of Marluxia's lip twitched downward. Ungrateful little bitch, as usual. "This shard retains some of the darkness that rendered us powerful. Most importantly, it allows for the creation of portals."

"Ah," the clinical interest Zexion was taking in this object was somewhat odd. How could he detach himself _now_, of all times? Marluxia thought to himself. When the weight of the last three years was finally running all together, like wet paint on a stained canvas. He was afraid to reveal something, Marluxia knew. Zexion was very afraid and it was obvious what he had been running away from all this time. Why there was a dilly-dally shrine in his front yard, or why every bookshelf lacked books on its top ledge. Why the house was half-empty, as if waiting for someone to come home.

"I've been looking," he spoke up again as the shard of metal dangled and twirled in the light. "I've been looking for what is left of us."

"No you're not," Zexion nearly smirked, having caught the other man in the midst of a pathetic lie. "You're looking for _him_."

Their eyes met and challenged. Neither backed down for the longest time until, finally, Marluxia spoke up. "And you're grieving for him. We're even."

The Schemer's face lit up with something akin to a wildfire, stopped in his tracks. How dare Marluxia imply such bold things? How dare he make him re-live the past, if even for a moment? He didn't want to see the things he had spent so long trying to weed from his memories, from his heart. The chiseled face, smelling of leather and burnt leaves after a windstorm. And the hands that could crush metal wrapped delicately around the flossy handle of a teacup, measuring and ever-so-aware of their own strength. Because he was kind and he was courteous like no one else in that entire place; he had manners and his footsteps were reminiscent of the sound his windows would make whenever it rained hard back in Radiant Gardens, the panes thudding in their slots. It was he who made him feel like the smallest, yet most important thing on the planet, just by letting himself be cradled in those arms. Zexion could feel them sometimes, still, mostly on Sundays when he lie awake in the morning, having been woken up too early by the church bells down the street. It was then, when the clouds in his mind hadn't lifted and he could pretend the bells were just Number Four's impatient alarm, running off while the academic struggled to orient himself enough to reach over and smash his fist into the 'snooze' button (it usually had taken about 34 seconds, Zexion recalled). And those were the days when he could only take what he had for granted.

"Zexion," Marluxia murmured. "You look pale."


	3. Built It Up With Wood and Clay

While Zexion and Marluxia stared at each other from across the kitchen table, another universe quite far away and on a completely different time schedule was beginning to stir. Morning was peeking over the horizon where cookie-cutter houses lined up in rows, each painted a pastel tint of some cheerful color. The milkman was already making his rounds, tipping his cap to the paperboy as he passed.

The paperboy tossed his newspapers up each driveway, letting them skid to stop a faultless ¾ of the way up. It really was quite a perfect neighborhood where everyone cut their lawn and the ladies of the street played bridge on Friday nights while their husbands went out to have a smoke and a game of bowling.

As the newspaper skidded up the driveway of the second house on Fairweather Drive (it had been painted a cheerful color of yellow by the previous owners and the current residents hadn't found a need to repaint it), the alarm inside went off at the same time. It was an old mahogany alarm clock, the bell ringing loud enough to wake the dead. Because, as the man in the bed beside the alarm clock reasoned, he was as good as.

It took exactly 34 seconds for the owner of the alarm clock to finally disentangle himself (swearing profusely in the process) and smash his fist into the unfortunate appliance to turn it off. Oh, if only waking up was an easy process—like in movies where all it took was a simple sun beam through the window.

With a sigh, the man in bed looked over to address his companion, still heavily snoozing and sprawled out on the pillow beside him. "Dudley, really. You should have woken me up earlier," he muttered, throwing off the covers. "I have work today."

Said Dudley lifted his head once and regarded the blond-haired man with an expression reminiscent of something hopeful until he saw that the man was already leaving the bedroom…and without even putting on his slippers. Dudley got up and followed him out.

In that same house, as the two went about their ritualistic business, there was a desk. It was backed up against a wall in the den, overflowing with stacks of notes and books. However, amid all the clutter was a smaller leather-bound book with clasps. Upon further examination, it was revealed to be a journal. The author was obviously well-versed in keeping a journal, for everything was neat and labeled properly, as if a continuation of previous practice. In fact, it seemed as though the entries were, indeed, a continuation of another journal entirely, for there was no introduction to speak of. The first page simply opened as,

June 3, 1950,

By the time I had been so ungratefully shoved into the confines of Castle Oblivion, I had already hypothesized that what a nobody _is_ was defined by their actions. To be worthless, truly worthless would be defined solely by worthless acts, then. And, the more and more I analyzed my previous endeavors, the more and more I began to realize what it is that I had feared (so far as a nobody could fear): worthlessness.

Although I wielded a weapon and element, I was never considered a warrior; anyone who knew me knew what buttons to press in battle to have me felled fast enough. Though I was cunning and sharp, I was also hasty, temperamental, impatient, and often irrational. Number Six would have quickly diagnosed me with several psychological disorders of that nature had I existed, I'm sure. These traits led to unintentional disasters, some in the laboratory, some outside of it. Disasters nonetheless, with all fingers to point at me, indisputably.

Even though I had written volumes concerning my emptiness, I think it was that fact alone (that I was writing, writing, writing and not living it) that kept me from realizing the true gravity of what I had become. Years slipped between my pen and my notebooks until they stacked in cabinets, and yet not once had I ever thought about my nonexistence without a page in front of me. So when the time came for me to open my eyes (and it was all a matter of time), it was an experience reminiscent of being broad-sided by a semi truck while carrying an armful of groceries down the sidewalk. I didn't know what to save first—my 'groceries' (my lies, my theories), or myself.

I remember the moment it all crashed down upon me—everything about nonexistence, worthlessness, and what it meant for my consciousness to truly be hollow. Evening was soaking into the confines of my small room in the basement of Castle Oblivion and I had stepped out of the bathroom, traces of mist still clinging around my eyes as I dried my hair. My replica was laid out on the metal table on the other side of the room, his arms and legs at clinical angles that only a boy like him could achieve without popping something out of some socket somewhere. He didn't look up, didn't move as I came in and threw the towel down—never did, never would.

I traced a line from the replica to my own bed with my eyes. Why, oh, why did his metal gurney look more comfortable than my own sleeping arrangements? With a sigh that may or may not have had something to do with my back, I laid down against stark sheets.

I kept quiet as I thought, not wanting my usual muttering to make the replica uneasy (the last time he'd gotten annoyed, he stalked off into some dark confines of the lab and I didn't find him for days). But I thought, nonetheless, about how _dreadful_ it all was. It was no easy task, this non-life. One might consider and assume: no life, no hardships. It seemed an easy enough presumption. Yet, oh, how wrong it was. At that very moment, my eyes peeled back in dreamless exhaustion, I was running through each and every failure that had ever met my doorstep as a Nobody. I couldn't count even half of them, and I was actually very efficient when it came to numbers.

Like it was a bedtime story, I spoke up. "Replica, why am I a Nobody?"

"That's an easy one." He said automatically, almost as if he'd been waiting for this question the entire evening. "Because you lost your heart."

"It's not a test, Replica. I am merely asking: why?"

"I don't understand the question."

I let an exasperated sigh push from my chest, weighed down by what seemed to be the entire world. "Nobodies are supposed to have originated only from Somebodies with strong hearts. And if that is the case…why do I still cease to exist?"

It was natural that my replica didn't know how to respond. He rarely did—his childish mind focused on only one thing at a time, and most of the time that thing was not me. How typical.

This time, however, the replica managed a small, "Vexen?"

"What?"

"I still don't understand."

"Oh, use your head, you ridiculous puppet." I snapped. "I wouldn't have given you one if I didn't intend you to use it. Think about it—what am I? I'm buried away, I am not respected, I am not acknowledged. Why, oh, _darkness_, why must I be here? It's like…" My fingers clenched in an out as I struggled to find the words, too poetic for my mouth to say correctly. "…like I'm a waste of space." 'Like I'm an old refrigerator,' I almost added. But, somehow, I thought I said enough, for the replica was propped up on one elbow and looking at me, eyes like waxed linoleum. For a moment, I recalled how carefully I had placed them in those deep sockets, how meticulous I had been in choosing the blues that would match best. My fingers had dug in the jar again and again, brushing past faintly rocking orbs until I had plucked one up carefully, lovingly, as to not damage their graceful arcs. I could see he remembered that part, too.

_What will it be like to _see_, Vexen?_

_It will hurt at first, but you'll like it once I've finished. Stay still now, and be good._

"No one's perfect." He told me. "Not as perfect as me, at least." A smile. A small, genuine replica smile. "But I think your heart had merit that the darkness saw. After all, it would take someone special to make something as perfect as me." He scooted a little on his metal table, as if resisting the urge to jump off. "Right?"

I found myself swallowing a lump. "Right."

"Right." And then the replica laid back down, the metal pins in his shoulders making a crisp sound against the table.

Right. I wanted to believe that it was nothing but an empty motion when I reached across my bed to throw him an extra blanket. It half-missed him, but he caught it in his fist, curious, as if there was some mistake.

"Keep it." I explained. "It's cold down here."


	4. Wood and Clay Will Wash Away

"_Is there a problem, Number Eleven?"_

"_Indeed. That's why I called you here."_

"_But so late at night?" I still remember the way the moon cast its light through the window to spill on the floor, a mockery of Kingdom Hearts. Graceless, almost, was the flood of prepubescent glory._

"_I simply wanted to make sure there wouldn't be any disruptions." The Lord of Castle Oblivion said. "It would be unfortunate. After all, I have your trust?"_

_I hesitated, then forced an agreeable, "Indeed."_

"_Good. I need you to default your men to me."_

_The bitter sap in the air churned as I said, "Pardon me, but I don't think I heard you correctly."_

"_You did. Number Four, Number Five, and yourself. I'm requesting your services at my whim." He narrowed his eyes. "Please don't make me…request further."_

"_Number Eleven, I—"_

"Zexion_," the man nearly drawled, as if tired of the conversation already, "you may be the Leader of the Underground, but you are still under my command."_

_My silver tongue went to work. "Indeed, but I can't help but worry about the productivity of having them answer to _two_ superiors. I am, indeed, to take your orders," I nearly choked in those words, "and relay those orders to them. But from me, Marluxia. So as not to confuse."_

"_So you wish to keep your scientist and your marionette." He hummed wistfully for a moment, as if in thought. Then, after a sigh, he said, "You're loyal to me, aren't you Six?"_

_Too automatic, "Yes."_

"_Show me." _

_With knees like rusted metal plates, I bent to him._

_He simply laughed. "Oh, _Zexion_, you do entertain." A feral smirk. "Now, really. Show me." A finger beckoned. And I, with what little threads I had left to hold me to my grace, followed. I only remember, as vines wound through my hair, hoping I would be able to look him in the eyes again._

_

* * *

_

Zexion sat straight up in bed, shoulders rigid. Nightmares had never come so easily before. Nightmares for the master of illusions himself were rare, but he supposed the one person who could do it to him was taking up residence in the room next door.

There was no moonlight to walk by that night, but Zexion knew the contours of the house well enough to go forth in the dark, opaquely white hands clutching doorframes as he passed.

"You couldn't sleep, either?"

Zexion turned his head sharply, jolted by the voice. Flicking on the lightswitch revealed Marluxia at the kitchen table, a cup of something hot and steaming between his palms. "No," he lied smoothly. "I needed a drink of water." He went to the sink, though it hadn't been his original path, trying not to be disturbed. "Was the couch too uncomfortable for you?" _Oh, high and mighty Lord who insists upon sleeping in a bed of rose petals and lavender-silks?_

Marluxia's mouth just curved into a small smile. Poor thing never knew when to quit. Didn't he know that his lies and schemes were transparent to him? "What nightmare did you have?"

Hunched over the sink, Zexion frowned. "Was I screaming?"

"No. I just want to know."

The illusionist whirled around, child-like face tensed in what could only be considered a mix of annoyance and apathy. "Then tell me, Marluxia: what nightmare did you have?"

"I dreamt of my first evening in the Organization. You?"

"I dreamt of that conversation we had…one of the many."

Vague as it was, Marluxia understood. He made a small noise, unable to maintain eye contact for a moment, feeling as though Zexion's gaze was attempting to violate in retaliation for what he had done in the past. "I am sorry," he finally said. "For everything."

"I have a hard time believing that you can be sorry for anything you've done," he spat back. "Heart or no, Marluxia, you are one of the most self-centered, egotistical, vain men I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. You certainly are a 'Lord.'"

"I _am_ sorry." Marluxia pushed back from the kitchen table to stand. "I am. That's why I have to find him. Do you believe for even one second that I'm seeking him out because I want to _be_ with him again?" His lips formed a derisive smile, almost a sneer. Because who in their right mind would ever want to be with him, especially after all that had happened. After all the things he had done…

"_Ring around the rosy, pocket full of posies, ashes, ashes…" Twin hands crept over Vexen's shoulder. The man stared listlessly into the wall as they found their resting place, crisscrossing his chest. Such gentle, caressing fingers, like those of a lover; and yet Vexen knew how cruel they could turn without even a hesitation._

_A mouth, fingered with blood-soaked cream, whispered, "…finish the song, Vexen."_

_Motionless, the scientist sat. High cheekbones caught most of the light passing over his face, the sole source radiating from a desk lamp. One of the hands reached over to flick it off. It was that moment in which both figures were plunged into darkness that Marluxia made his move, his true nature dragged to the surface, cupping Vexen's chin in a grip that could break bones and ream flesh. _

"_Finish the song."_

"…_they all fall down."_

Zexion was reasonably stunned. He had never heard the assassin apologize before. Remorse was not supposed to be something that man felt, and yet it seemed strangely genuine. Maybe this second chance had changed them more than he thought.

"I just want to find him," Marluxia continued. "Because if I don't, I'll never forgive myself. I need him to know that what I did…it was the only thing I could do to show him how much I…I was obsessed with him." How could a Nobody explain how this process worked? Hate and derision were the only elements left when attraction failed to explain love. A Nobody didn't love, couldn't love, but they could try to emulate it as best as they could in the only ways they knew how. At the base level, love without emotion meant spending time together and it meant physical relations. Without emotions, 'love' had been stripped down to sex. Lots and lots of sex.

"He isn't going to want you back, you know. I saw what you did. I saw with my own eyes. Boiling water to—"

"Look, Zexion," Marluxia wrapped his fist around the cup in his hands, staring deep into its steaming contents. "When we were hollow, monsters rose in us. We were composed of demons and flaws. You were no better. Don't think I didn't hear what you did, Zexion—Ienzo—you manipulative little whore. You slept with just about anyone and everyone you wanted something from, heart or no heart. And Elaeus and Lexaeus _knew_. And he said nothing. Even with your Master Ansem for a laboratory, Ienzo? Really?"

The illusionist really hadn't expected that turn. Of all the dirty, underhanded things to do, reminding him of that was simply a kind of sick cruelty that only Marluxia could manage. "Don't you dare pretend as though you knew what I had to do. Don't pretend as though I stooped to your level."

"But you have," Marluxia nearly laughed. "You treated Lexaeus no better than I treated Vexen. You used him, manipulated him, controlled him, brainwashed him. He followed you of his own whim, but only after your games with his head. And even after that, he was disposable to you, a mechanism to help you reach books that were too high up, or a body to get up out of bed to turn the lightswitch off, because goodness knows you'd be too warm and tucked in to do it yourself."

Zexion's cheeks heated up, the reddening made plain as ever by the fact that the rest of him had drained of color. He didn't want to listen to Marluxia's snappish accusations, and, quite honestly, he wouldn't have if they had been just accusations. But they were something more than just that; they were quite true. But only to a degree, Zexion reasoned to himself—he wasn't entirely to blame. After all, they _had_ just been Nobodies. Of course Lexaeus had been useful and loyal and perfect. And of course Zexion had chosen him and manipulated him to be just that. But there was a difference between what Marluxia accused him of and the reality of things, when everything was put in perspective. They had been shells, and yet Zexion had _needed_ Lexaeus. He may not have needed him in a way a lover might, but he had still needed him. And he needed him now, which was a justifiable fact that meant there was something more to their time as Nobodies than simply acting as the used and the user.

"Do not try to make yourself stand taller by wringing blame from the rest of us," Zexion retorted, dangerous. "There was a clear difference between Lexaeus and I and what you did to Vexen. Unlike you two, we had a symbiotic relationship. I never took pleasure in hurting him."

Abruptly, Marluxia changed the subject. "What would you say to him if you saw him again? Would you apologize? Would you pretend it never happened?"

Zexion never answered the question. He simply stared. "…are you offering me something?"

Both of them had known it would come down to this moment. Ever since Marluxia had seen Zexion from across the street that Tuesday morning. Ever since Zexion had seen the scythe shard. It had just been a matter of time before it came down to it, and both had been dreading it a little in their own ways.

"If I gave you the chance to come world-jumping with me, would you do it, Zexion? It will be dangerous and it will be a long journey. But if there is luck, we may somehow find some of what is left of our order. And if you are really lucky," he pulled the shard from his chest to dangle it in front of his eyes, looking past it and up at Zexion. "If you are _really_ lucky, you might find him."

Every tie that Zexion had ever had to this world he resided in (if there ever had been any) were immediately broken, as if a large pair of scissors had snapped them all at once, no time for deliberation or second thoughts. "Yes. I would go with you."

"Then go back to bed. You'll need the rest—tomorrow morning, we leave."


	5. One For The Master

Marluxia swilled the wine in the glass before downing about half of it in one mouthful. Zexion just looked on reprovingly.

"You're lucky I had a bottle. I don't normally drink alcohol."

"This isn't as easy as it used to be," the assassin explained. "Portaling takes a lot of concentration and strength. And I've never done it with two people before."

"So please remind me once again why you're getting yourself drunk?"

"One glass isn't going to get me intoxicated," Marluxia sent a blue glare over the rim of the glass. He took another sip to finish the rest. "And it's just to….help me focus, is all." He wasn't going to tell Zexion how nerve-wracking this was for him. It was like the darkness, already rebellious and careless with their hollow bodies as Nobodies, had grown teeth and layers of chloroform-slick walls. One step in the wrong direction and he could be lost to it forever, this mere mortal all of a sudden. Zexion just didn't understand yet, what it was like to not be in control of that vast expanse of nothing.

Besides…he had been trapped in the darkness for an extended period of time. All of them had, he assumed. As they parted from their bodies, shattered upon the arena at Never Was, they had no place else to go. Marluxia remembered very clearly his consciousness suspended in the black swirling viscera of darkness, protrusions running over where his body should have been, every phantom touch running through him, as if re-building nerves and flesh where they had been reamed from existence. Had darkness saved him, or had it only cushioned his fall? For after an eternity in that chamber (he never really cared to count for himself how long it had actually been—at that point, all he knew was that he was dead. And all he could do was replay his life before him again and again), he suddenly opened his eyes and there had been light.

"If you're quite finished, I'd like to go." Zexion took the glass from Marluxia's hand and immediately went to the sink to wash it, no matter they may have been leaving this world behind for good. If the dishes weren't properly clean, that wouldn't have been acceptable, apparently.

Marluxia watched him, eyeing the bag on the counter that Zexion had packed for himself. Perhaps he had brought some food, a book or two, and a change of clothes. How quaint. "You know…I feel as though I should remind you."

"Hmm?"

"This is going to be dangerous…and the worlds we were sent to I imagine were quite random in manner."

"Your point?"

"Zexion," Marluxia bit his lip and glanced out the window to try and compensate for the terrible feeling he was developing inside. "You know, we may not find him. Either of them, really. There is a chance that they are dead already."

The schemer looked up from the sink, as if every fiber of his being had been offended by that statement. "Shut up."

"I've been to worlds without air, you know. Worlds without ground where all there is to do is fall for eternity…"

_Lexaeus always hated heights… _"Don't say that," Zexion snapped, almost slamming the washed and dried glass into the cupboard too harshly. "Your rambling doesn't help the situation at all. If you think your speculations change anything, then you've been misled. Let's just go." Three years without hope and he was not about to let Marluxia dash it all to pieces again. It was not his place.

"As you wish," Marluxia sighed, pulling the shard from the chord around his neck and placing it in his palm. "Come here, then. You're going to need to hold onto me and not let go."

_Well, this will be awkward_, Zexion thought to himself. With his mouth forming a pinched line, he grabbed his bag off the kitchen counter and stood in front of the taller man. How was he supposed to 'hold onto' him? Hug him around the waist? Take his hand?

Marluxia was thinking the same thing. Neither wanted to get close to the other, so there was a slight uncomfortable shuffling that lasted a little too long before Zexion linked one arm through Marluxia's.

"Ready?"

"Do I need to hold my breath or something for this?"

"No," he answered. "Just don't let go of me. You'll be lost in the darkness and…powers, Lexaeus would kill me if I let that happen."

Lost in the darkness? A less than pleasant thought. He wanted to open his mouth with a threat, but all of a sudden, the scythe shard seemed to eviscerate darkness. It bloomed in the atmosphere around them, like ink in still water, before engulfing them, and by then it was too late for anything. There was a rushing in his ears that would have drown out any words should he have tried to speak them.

All at once, Zexion realized why Marluxia had needed a glass of wine. Everything was spinning, drawing its soul-licking snare within a breath of him. Claustrophobic, he didn't notice he was trying to draw closer until he nearly stepped on Marluxia's feet. To try and ground himself, he glanced up at the man (or what he could still see of him in this swirling world) and realized that any moment, he _could_ push him away…and Zexion would be lost forever.

How was it that he was forced to be relying on this man? This cruel, inhumanly narcissistic beast with a pretty face and a flattering smile. Seeping from him were the memories of what had happened three years ago, all the worst things that this man had been at the core of. And soon he wasn't standing in the black abyss of nothingness, but he was surrounded by white walls. When he looked up from the tiled floor, he was suddenly in a dream.

* * *

There was something strange happening in Castle Oblivion. A bad taste was left lingering in my mouth, even a few days after the Lord of the Castle had asked me to join him for tea. 'Leader to leader,' he had said, and it showed in the tightness of his mouth how it pained him to say it. It was the wise thing to do, however—acknowledging that I held the loyalty of half the members of the Castle just proved that he wasn't as conceited of an idiot as he appeared to be.

Still, the invitation had irked me. Dots of ink scrambled from my vision across caramel paper and book strings to further prove the point.

_Little Jack Horner sat in his corner…_

If I only could be convinced that this wasn't some sort of trap or ploy, I might have been more settled. It wasn't as if I was being asked to see him in his chambers or in any place private. I was being asked to the drawing room. For tea.

…_eating his Christmas pie…_

Nine hours after telling Lexaeus to wait up for me, I felt guilty. But he really should wait up…

…_he put in his thumb…_

When I entered the drawing room, I could already smell something was amiss. It was scented with velvet, crisp and fearful. Run your hand along it one way, it flattens and smooths; run your hand backwards, however, and it bristles.

…_and pulled out a plumb…_

There was one light in the room—a circular frame to a scene that I would never forget. In a simple, clean still-life, Marluxia sat in a chair, waiting, his eyes already regarding me with a luminescent triumph. And there was a strange kind of table before him, too. I couldn't quite figure out what it was, at first, no matter how I tilted my head. Ah, but that was until it started to _move_.

_And said_, "Welcome, Number Six. It is such a pleasure to have you with us."

Still framed in the doorway, I was too far away to really determine what it was that had been confusing me so. It was just that element of displacement; something was amiss in the room. Like a volume that had been stacked upside-down on the bookshelf of one thousand books.

Horror was my first reaction when the table—or at least, the topmost part of it—gave a jerk and a pathetic cat's-whine. Oh, but it was then revealed that it wasn't a table at all; it was a man. Naked and bound on his stomach across a granite countertop lay the man I had least expected to see there in a display akin to an erotic sacrifice. His hair veiled his down-turned, shamed face—for this, I was glad. I don't think I could have stood there one more second if I had seen his face—but there was no mistaking the bony angles that pressed unwillingly against the bonds that held him. He was gagged; the strangled noises that failed to form words attested to this.

"Do you like it?" Marluxia noticed my staring. "Number Four usually adores these types of games. But I don't think he was expecting company today, were you, my lovely?"

Vexen moaned and then thrashed, but was silenced as a brutal hand grabbed a golden lock of hair and _pulled_. Oh, and Marluxia simply chuckled like he had just told an exceptionally clever joke.

"Please, please come in, Number Six," the Lord of Castle Oblivion beckoned, ushering me to sit before him. Compassion had never seemed like such a void emotion until that moment when I followed without a word.

I remember almost being able to ignore the living table of flesh between us—it shivered and flinched and sometimes sobbed quietly, but Marluxia's eyes held mine, daring me to say anything to the effect.

"I believe I promised you tea, didn't I?" He said conversationally, "I will get you your tea. We have a long chat ahead of us."

The way he simpered did not comfort me. Nor did the way he summoned a steaming pot from the dusks with such gaiety. His domain, his presence, seemed to be the only one that could rival my own. Xemnas was easy to manipulate; Saïx could be calmed with soothing tones. But Marluxia could see right past the inner workings of my mind, the very thing that gave me my nonexistent identity as the Cloaked Schemer. It was like being stripped down, being bound and—

Vexen positively _screamed_ as the boiling pot of water was set upon his mid-back, arching and curling in waves of agony. Even his ribs, catacombs so stark and humiliating in his nakedness, seemed to compress in an attempt to reel away from the source of burning heat.

Marluxia hit him across the exposed flesh of his thighs, no regard toward my appalled presence at all. "_You'll upset the water and it will spill all over you—now shut up._"

Vexen whimpered and forced himself to still, cords of muscles still trembling under the pale flesh of his flanks and straining arms. He looked so very easy to bruise. I could have reached my hand out against the curve of his vertebra and pressed down, just an ounce, to see if this was true. Ah, but he belonged to Marluxia now. The bonds made that clear enough.

Apparently the fit was over, as the Assassin was agreeable again. "Now. Sugar?"

"No, thank you." I croaked.

"No? Alright, then. I'll trust you." He said, rambling with an air of leisure as he prepared the tea. Like a simple housewife making conversation, he went on, "A curious thing, trust. Sometimes you trust too little, sometimes you trust too much. Isn't that right, Number Four?"

He didn't answer.

"Regardless, I think it's something we, as two reasonably powerful political entities, should be able to discuss," He cradled his tea in one hand, regarding me with a saccharine smile. "How much we trust each other."

"I will be honest, Number Eleven. I do not trust you."

False smile turned ever more false. "That is a curious point of view you have there, Zexion. I would have thought you'd have more faith in my convictions. After all, not to brag or anything, but I am the Lord of Castle Oblivion." A smirk. "Oh, yes. And I have a recent addition to my faction. As you can see, Number Four here happens to agree with my philosophies more than he agrees with yours." Fingers worked their way lovingly through blonde hair, sticky with heat from the cup that moved from hand to hand. "Don't you, dearest?"

Vexen did not say anything.

The playful fingers turned cruel and pulled his head back significantly. I could only watch, finally looking upon the stained cheeks and vindictive-looking ball gag that I had tried to keep from acknowledging ever since first laying eyes on his unfortunate position.

"_Don't you?_"

The once-proud Academic simply let out a wail. It seemed to please Marluxia, for he slammed his head back down without regard (it made a sick, dense sound) and turned to me once more, his composure flawless.

"You see? That just leaves you and Number Five to your positions in the basement. Let's keep it that way, shall we?" He lifted the tea pot from Vexen's back to pour himself another cup. My eyes dared not linger on the circular red welt its heat had left behind. "You know as well as I that I have no use for you, that Xemnas simply sent you to keep an 'eye on me.' The truth of the matter is, I don't need watching, Zexion. It would be best you remember that," he smiled, eyes refusing to contribute to the expression. "Okay? You and your marionette stay in your part of the Castle, and we won't have any problems. Should I need anything, Vexen will let you know. Should you meddle in my affairs, I will take great pleasure in soundly destroying you in the most painful, agonizing way I know how." A pleasant sigh, as if we had been discussing weather. "Another cup of tea?"

* * *

Zexion opened his eyes, and he was in a cornfield. There were two suns in the sky, forcing him to squint against the light.

"Well…that went swimmingly." Marluxia let go of him promptly, taking a deep breath of the fresh air.

Zexion didn't answer. He simply stared at the four pairs of crescent marks he had dug into the palms of this hands.


	6. One For The Dame

Marluxia never seemed to be available in his quarters during the day. Perched up in the highest of rooms in Castle Oblivion, one would think he'd spend a little time there. But no. I had come to knock at least a half dozen times earlier that day to no avail. He had not been there—probably pruning his garden. Or, more likely, pruning his hair.

I had tried giving him credit. After all, we had only been settled into the castle for a week and, as Nobodies were creatures of habit, our routines were thrown off. Zexion and Lexaeus were almost besides themselves, more rigid than ever, as if trying to make up for the lack of normal function.

It wasn't as though I didn't have plenty of work, setting up the laboratory, shooing Number Eight and Twelve away. They pestered just to pester—really, who came all the way down to the basement just to ask for a pen?

This was ridiculous, however. Marluxia couldn't have been that busy. With what? Glorifying himself? Standing in front of a mirror?

By the time the door opened, I had almost forgotten that I had, indeed, knocked. I glanced up quickly on instinct, finding myself in the presence of none other than the vainglorious Number Eleven. It was almost humorous how he refused to open just _one_ door. Both had been flung wide open, announcing his presence. His ego probably couldn't have fit through just one, I remembered noting to myself, giving him a bland up and down look. I had seen him only a few times before in the great throne room at Never Was from a distance, perched as if he were the God of our order and Xemnas were simply the old, used master that was stepping down and handing him the key. But in person, he wasn't so grand as the others had been whispering. He wore a black cloak like the rest of us and probably had a capacity for intelligent thought similar to that of a dog.

"Number…Four, is it?" He tilted his head in the most pleasant of manners. Though something in his tone was reading vaguely-disguised distain, as it was too sweet. Probably to hide the bile.

"Yes. I've come to have a proper meeting with you and begin laying down some ground rules." I wasted no time with niceties, as there would be no merit to it. "Number Five and Six know what to expect when it comes to conduct in and around my research, but I am concerned that you and your neophytes may not be extending the same courtesy at the moment. Perhaps you just need some clarification." I leaned back when I was finished, looking down my nose at him. My expectations were to be made clear. That way, when I was being bothered, I had reason to impose punishment.

I noticed Marluxia stayed relatively quiet and still through my explanation. Perhaps once, I saw his eyes flick over me as if to size me up, then down the hall. His voice was still sugary as he stepped to one side, inviting me in. "Please. I'd love to have a little chat with you. It seems there are many things we need to discuss."

_There, perhaps he's not as dense as he looks. Great peacock… _I walked past him, though those double doors. Inside, it seemed rather clear what he had been doing for the last week. It was a grand room of marble and open space. There was his bed along the far wall, fit for royalty and draped in white sheets. Two doors led from the room, and either could have been a door to the bathroom or a closet. Wide windows revealed a balcony looking out upon a night sky, vines crawling up to reach toward the speckled stars. In fact, vines were everywhere. They curled protectively over the banisters of the bed, they writhed up the walls, as if gravity were not a factor. They must have been the fastest-growing plants in existence.

Also in the room was a little sitting area and what I could only assume to be a faux fireplace. The whole chamber was grand to the point of being gaudy, just as gaudy as the meticulously patterned rug that softened my footsteps as he led me to the sitting area and gestured I take a seat.

Even the chairs were too soft. It took actual effort not to slouch down in them like a slob which, of course, Marluxia had adopted that laid-back position, one leg crossing over the other as he summoned dusks with teathings.

"Now," he began, lending himself some preamble. "You want to discuss something with me. Well, it just so happens I would like to discuss something with you, too. Since we're trying to get to know each other," he began pouring the tea into the china in a manner that made Zexion's usual grace and care look primitive, "I should think we can call each other by our names. And not those silly derived rankings—"

"They're not 'silly,'" I said, eyeing the way he was adding too much sugar to my cup. "They are efficient, as we are an Organization and not a woman's kitting circle—"

"I never quite found it important enough to learn your name the first time around," he continued with a fair level of acid overriding my own, "So I should like to commit it to memory now. It's only proper, now that I am your lord and you are one of my subjects. Your name, Number Four?"

Oh, how _dare_ he. The way my eyes flared up surely told him not to cross anymore lines. That the rank he spoke was, indeed, higher than his own and the wrath of Xemnas could be brought down upon his head at any moment should I so wish…Xemnas…Xemnas…

I must have faltered, because Marluxia smiled.

"Well? Don't make me go all the way downstairs to ask Zexion. You're so stubborn. I think I like you."

At that flippant remark, I snapped back. "Vexen. My name is Vexen."

"Vexen," he leaned over the table just a fraction. "I have the feeling we are going to be wonderful 'friends.' All we need to do is understand each other, isn't that right? First, I'll try to understand you and your needs…and then, you will understand me and my needs. Since you're the guest, of course, I will allow you to go first. Please, Vexen. Speak."

I should have known then that I was dealing with a monster far beyond what I could fathom at that point. I should have walked straight out the door and remained dealing with the neophytes that plagued me. Perhaps then none of what happened would have played out like it did. If I hadn't been so stubborn as to look him in the eyes as I challenged, "I want you to understand one thing, neophyte. Xemnas might have put you in charge of this castle, but he put me in charge of the members. If you can't count, I would like to remind you that the number 'four' is above the numbers 'five,' 'six,' 'eight,' 'eleven,' and 'twelve.' You may do what you like up here, planning and conspiring. But when it all boils down to it, no one here is to disrespect me and my private offices. This especially includes your neophytes. Keep them out."

As I spoke, Marluxia barely moved. Only twice did he lift his teacup to his mouth to take a sip. And when I was finished, he neither blinked, nor smiled, nor frowned. He was completely unphased. Then, without even the clink of china, he set his cup down.

"Do you like roses, Vexen?"

"…pardon?"

"I asked you," he raised his voice a fraction, "If you liked roses."

I stayed quiet. I didn't like roses, but…as Marluxia was beginning to stand, I wasn't sure what to expect. He doubled back around, striding casually, quietly over to his bed, one arm behind his back. Gazing upon the vines that wound up the banister, he cooed.

"I would like to tell you a story about roses. In particular, a story about a little something that happened to me earlier this month. You see," he sighed stroking a finger down the wood of the banister, as if longing for something, "as I had just arrived, the plot for my garden was not well cultivated. Very rudimentary, with an odd assortment of pests that I had to constantly keep clearing out. My roses, well, they grew quite readily with watering and care. But so, however, did the weeds…some of the weeds grew almost too fast for me to keep clearing, what with the work I had to do. In particular, there was this rather nasty cutthroat threatening a patch of my most beloved pernetiana…" He shook his head, looking to me. "Doesn't that sound awful?"

In the space that followed, I realized he was waiting for my answer. I cleared my throat. "Erm…yes. Yes it does."

"Ah, but don't worry, Vexen. Roses are beautiful warriors. Propagating themselves over and in and the soil, their roots took hold, penetrating the cutthroat. Again and again, choking it, molding it, withering its very stem until it turned brown, wilted, and died. And, thus, my roses flourished." With a tap of his finger and a whisper of breath, a bud of the vine on the banister opened right before my eyes. White, virginal, pure…and then it cascaded. Though the entire room, suddenly, a wave was created upon which every bud upon every vine triggered its neighbor into opening and pouring forth its blossom of fine cream. If I hadn't been there, in that room with _him_, I might have considered it the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

He had caught me staring around the room in awe, for when I turned my attention back to him, there was a smirk on his lips and he was already leaving the bedside to come stand before me. "Weeds simply are not welcome in my garden, Vexen."

Our eyes met, and there was a challenge in both of them, and neither of us was bothering to conceal it. His anecdote was offensive and, quite frankly, quite lewd. And if I had to fight him…

"You may go, Vexen. I know you must be…busy." He gestured toward the door. "I will inform Eight and Twelve to keep their visits to a minimum, and, in return, you know what to expect from me." Marluxia's face suddenly grew more sinister than I had ever seen it. Like the darkness itself was pouring forth from his heart to alter his face into something beheld of a madman. And it was at _that_ moment that I knew I should have run.

"Don't be a weed, Vexen," he said. "Because if you ever for a second thought that Xemnas was your worst nightmare…you will soon find out how easy your bones really are to crush." Then, most chillingly of all, he smiled. "Take care, Four."

* * *

Vexen put his pen down with a sigh. He looked at the clock, then looked out the window, and, at that point, decided he would need a cup of coffee to keep him awake.

Work had been enjoyable, at least. The other scientists revered his knowledge and respected his theories. But, since it was a little bit of a primitive world, he had to keep from revealing his true potential. The 1950's township he was in was still discovering elements. He was in a state called 'California,' though he didn't care too much about the beaches it was known for. Not as much as Dudley did, at the very least. Sometimes, when he was feeling benevolent, they would both take a walk down to the shore and enjoy a sunset, but mostly his preference for the indoors was respected.

It was usually on long nights when the memories of Marluxia were strongest. Sometimes he was able to retain it to the pages of his notebook, and other times, all he could do was lie in a sweat, pushing the blankets off him layer by layer to try and cool his body. Most of all, he just marveled at how tight those memories still gripped him, even after trying to force them all out. Nothing would ever make Marluxia go away. Nothing.


	7. One For The Little Boy Down The Lane

"Your hands are bleeding." Marluxia finally said. He and Zexion had been walking through cornfields for the better part of the time they had been in the world, and nothing had been exchanged between them thusfar. But the silence was overwhelming, and he was getting tired of Zexion attempting to wipe his palms on the drying, crinkling fronds as he walked through them. The stains they left behind were too obvious for it to be becoming of the schemer. A little pathetic, really.

"I must have scraped them."

"If you die because of some infection..."

Zexion let a cropped sigh from his nose, changing the subject. "Just how do you know where to find us? There are many worlds and universes. How do you track down the remnants of our order?"

"I don't." He pressed two fingers against the shard that bounced against his chest as he walked. "This does."

"It is a detector?" The schemer was absolutely nonplussed. "What, does it light up and flash or something?"

Ironically, Marluxia was equally displeased with this assumption. "No. To know how the Shard works, you need to know how the worlds are connected. This is something our science bypassed as Nobodies, because it didn't apply to us…but worlds are connected as a web. Without darkness, we cannot jump as far as we used to. Instead, we must travel along a certain prescribed thread with prescribed branches. A world could theoretically have only two or three branches, or as many as ten or twelve."

Drinking in the explanation, Zexion stepped over tree limbs and pushed past brambles, trying not to trip. "So…if the worlds are branched, how does this 'shard' know which way to go? Isn't it just random and futile?"

"No," he quickly said. "There is a 'resonance' that happens within each of us. This resonance has to do with the world we were killed in, and the fact that we were all thrown across the universes at the same time. The shard picks up on this resonance (as it is the same reverberation for it, too), and as I move across the web of worlds, it will always choose the world that brings it closer to another reverberation. So I am always moving closer to a world with a remnant member…it's just a matter of searching for them on each world. Obviously this web is large…you're the first one I've found."

Zexion eyes him curiously. "You know quite a lot…"

"I've been searching for three years. I've come across a lot of 'evidence' to support my 'hypothesis,' as Vexen would say…"

_So Marluxia really does miss him_, Zexion thought. It was strange to think about, surely. He didn't want to think of the assassin as a changed man, though it was becoming harder and harder not to. Of course _he_ hadn't changed; he was still the Cloaked Schemer, minus the cloak. He was still just as he always was, never even missed afternoon tea. Just like he and Lexaeus always did at 3:30 sharp. Sometimes he fancied that Lexaeus, wherever he was, was having tea in some other universe at the exact same time.

* * *

The big hand that clenched around the teacup was still for a moment, two moments. The man was staring off into the corner of the room, feeling a little numb at the moment. Cold tea was all that was in the cup by now.

"What do you make of it?" His companion chimed up from across the table. "Thomas?"

Lexaeus looked up, used to answering to that name by now. But he was a quiet man by nature, and simply shrugged in response, finally setting the tea down to the china. "What do I think about the riot? I think it is unfortunate…"

"No," the man across the table gestured with a heavy hand in the direction of the bruise that was taking on a nasty yellow color upon Lexaeus' temple. "The fact that that Luft kid had the goddamn guts to hit you. I mean, come on. He was just a scrawny kid, one of them newsboys…you're an officer, Thomas. And you didn't even do a goddamn thing about it."

True, Lexaeus was one powerful specimen of a man. He was built like someone who had spent his lifetime hammering railroad spikes into the ground nonstop. And part of his strength he was just born with—large hands, wide shoulders, tall frame. And a square jaw that hardened into a rigid line when he was deep in thought.

"They're just children," he said at length. "I don't feel…comfortable."

"They're brats—their riot isn't a worker's riot, it's a children's riot. They don't wanna sell newspapers no more, they don't gotta. N' they be causing trouble up Brooklyn, too. And then look at you: not even moving as an eleven-year old kid beats you over the head with a stick…"

One finger found its way up to press against the bruise. It made a white, burning color flash behind his eyes. Lexaeus couldn't say anything to refute the fact that he had refused to hit the boy back. Not only was he hesitant to use violence in the first place, but the fact that when he looked into Arthur Luft's face, he saw a flash of _Zexion_ behind those rebellious, prepubescent eyes made it impossible for him to even lift a finger.

He pulled his cap down over his forehead to hide the bruise.


	8. When The Bough Breaks

I looked over the expanse of sheets and pillows that separated us, not knowing what to expect. Vexen, on principal, never spoke after the fact. Actually, he rarely said anything at all.

To my disappointment, the expression on the half of his face I could see was completely blank. No hatred, no satisfaction. That was more disappointing than anything, seeing him there, laid flat out on his back on the opposite side of the bed, as grand and plenty as it was. It was like there were miles in between our bodies, mine placed hopefully toward the middle, and his all the way on the edge of 'his' side ('his' side, titled due to the fact that the room dropped below freezing the moment I crossed the invisible line after our 'engagement' had concluded). It wasn't as though he slept in this bed.

"Vexen," I turned my head so he couldn't pretend as though I wasn't speaking directly to him. "Since you were so cooperative tonight, I think I'll send a good note off to Xemnas. Would you like that?"

There was a cold silence before he answered, "Perhaps."

"A good note about _you_. About how hard you've been working."

"Yes."

"You know I like it when you do everything I say."

"Yes."

I frowned. The only thing I resented about the way he performed for me was his clinical, calculative tone. He was _trying_ to ignore me. I didn't appreciate that. "Get up."

For the first time all evening, Vexen looked straight at me, eyebrows buckled. "What?"

"Get up," I insisted, throwing the bedsheets off him.

He curled his arms around his chest for a moment, looking at me as though I'd disrupted something important.

"Get. Up." I was tired of repeating myself—my tone implied this, and that was all it took to get Vexen sliding out of bed and onto his feet, still naked and ruffled. His eyes were sharp, mouth drawn into a straight line. The room was getting colder by the moment.

I threw open the doors to the balcony, letting the warm night's air waft in. "Come here. I want to show you something."

Hesitantly, he followed me. Flat-footed steps made deft sounds against the marble floor, his shoulders still drawn up in an uncomfortable position, just daring me to touch him. Frustrated, he blew at the hair that tickled his forehead and nose as he stepped out of the calm of the bedroom and into the breeze outside. His voice was clipped, impatient. "What?" He was probably used to being able to sneak out by this time of night, dressing as though I weren't watching the way the muscles in his back moved over his spine every time he bent over. This, to him, was an extra, unnecessary span of time he had to spend with me.

My hand reached for the balcony railing, patting it. "Come here. Get up on this."

Vexen didn't move, only frowning and giving me a flat look. "What? Sit on it?"

"Don't be daft, Vexen—stand on it. Face me."

He still refused to move, not even bothering to tell me that I was crazy and that I should just go back to bed. His eyes said as much. It seemed I needed to give him a little extra nudge.

"Vexen, you know I hold your chains. Don't make me repeat myself. Unless, of course, you wish for me to—"

"Fine," he spat, turning quickly to grudgingly test the railing for himself. His hands were pale and cautious as he held his balance, first lifting one slender leg up to rest his foot upon the flat ledge. His toes curled over the edge, as if trying to grip as best he could. Then his other leg came up, lifting him fully up onto the balcony railing, crouched and trying to find his balance.

I watched, thinking what a beautiful statue he would make. I would have likened him to a gargoyle of sorts, but he was far too attractive for that. Though he was mostly composed of bones that jutted from his elbows and hips, he had cords of muscles that pulled taught under his skin. Almost poreless, smooth as an unbroken sheet of cream. It was true that I cherished his body, coveted it; all mine. With his body, I could ignore the sour unpleasantness that his personality left behind.

"Stand up," I instructed, eyeing him and his naked splendor splashed against the night sky.

Still nonplussed, and perhaps even nervous, he slowly let his hands leave the railing, spine straightening to stand. And once he was fully upright, he looked down at me. Perhaps he was even a little smug, thinking that he was above me for once, looking down with a prideful tilt to his chin. I thought it was rather endearing, and only came nearer, letting my hands wrap around the back of his knees. He was cold.

"Do you trust me?" I asked, eyeing every inch of the body before me. I had him open and defenseless, backed up against a lethal drop—he was in no way above me, in no way in control. I had him, I owned him.

"I don't trust you." He answered, perhaps too eager to get his point across. Perhaps if he hadn't been in such a position, he might have recoiled.

"No?" Unphased, I stroked up and down the back of his legs. "Ah, but do you trust me more than, say…Xemnas?"

We looked each other in the eyes for a moment. It might have been almost intimate had we both not been trying to hide what was going on behind our eyes, masks of gold and red refusing to reveal an ounce of our true intentions.

"I trust you more than Xemnas," he finally said.

"Good. Then we can benefit from each other." I leaned forward, listening closely for the hitch in Vexen's voice as I placed a kiss upon the skin of his inner thigh. The sharp intake of breath was, indeed, unmistakable. "I will keep you in Xemnas' favor if you keep yourself in my favor. And, to do that…you will grant me the gateway to Number Six's last reserves of power in this castle."

Vexen's hair stuck to his cheeks as he looked down at me. "I can't do that."

"You _will_ do it."

"How?"

"It's simple, Vexen." I smiled at him, knowing how easily, now, it was to manipulate him until the breaking point…and all because of his fear of one simple, tired old man. "You belong to me already. You simply need to pull yourself from him, leaving only Five under his command. The two of them will stand strong together, as always, but they will not control the majority of this Castle. That majority will be defaulted to me. As I want it."

"Yes, but _why?_" He pushed at my shoulders, as if imploring me to let him down.

My hands pushed back to keep him there. I mocked, instead. "And they said there were no stupid questions…"

"Marluxia!"

"Do it." I ground my fingers into the tendons of his legs, a blatant threat to his balance. "You have no choice anymore, Vexen; when will you learn that? The day you first came to me with your pathetic plea was the last day you belonged to yourself—face that, embrace it. And now do as I say."

As I pulled him closer, he had to grab my shoulders to keep from losing his balance. I watch as his lips curled back from his teeth. "If I could," he hissed with acid, "If I could, I would rip every hair from your body. I would peel the skin of your face back and pin it to your ears. I would chain your body to the wall and watch as you decomposed…"

My mouth smiled and, this time, so did my eyes. "You'll do it, won't you?"

"I'll do it."

* * *

Marluxia stared at the patch of grass that had been flattened down to fit where the schemer's small body had lain. It was Zexion stepping over him to go wash up in a nearby stream that had woken him up. Of that, he was mildly thankful. It would do no good for him to have gotten any deeper in the memories—they consumed him sometimes.

As he sat up, he rubbed his hand over his face, a little worse for wear. This was the thirtieth world they'd been to together. Zexion seemed to be getting frustrated, as he hadn't spoken for days, seemingly. And, because Zexion was frustrated, so was Marluxia. This hadn't been easy for him, either, and it was almost laughable that the other could get so flustered after just more than a week of searching. Marluxia had been searching for three years.

"Ready to go?"

Zexion stepped over brambles, muttering something in response.

"Not a morning person?"

More mumbles.

"Neither am I. After a while, it gets better, though." Marluxia sat with his hands in between his knees as Zexion moved around the small 'camp' they had set up. They needed to move on. The shard was restless at his throat and that meant they could be getting warm. He didn't really know. He'd only ever found Zexion. And he only really knew for sure that Zexion's world had been the one the shard was leading him to because it wouldn't let him _leave_. He could travel to an adjacent world, but would always keep coming back, drawn by the resonance Zexion created. If that's how the shard worked, the faster they moved, the closer and closer they would be brought to the next resonance body…

Briefly, he wondered what would happen if they stumbled across someone like, say, Axel. Would he have to come with them in order to allow them off his world? If his resonance kept bringing them back again and again, it would give them no choice but to take him with them, as much as both he and Zexion would hate that man's presence. And what happened if a person refused to leave their world?

Two pairs of dark eyes met and Marluxia took the shard in his palm. Like a choreographed motion, the assassin extended his hand and Zexion took it in his own. Darkness bruised the field for a moment and then they were gone.

* * *

"We have a big day ahead of us tomorrow, don't we?" I stood in the glow of the moonlight for a few moments, knowing Vexen wouldn't answer me. I took a sip of my tea, tasting the pleasant crispness of ginger at my senses. Oh, how I enjoyed ginger before bed. "You know what your job is, don't you? Keep Five and Six out of my way while I deal with the Keyblade Bearer. He is mine, and their meddling will only displease me. Do you understand?"

Vexen hiccoughed.

"Of course, I know you have the tendency to rebel against my wishes, but this time, I think I've made my point. Really, you can be so dense sometimes. It's a good thing you have me to enlighten you." I took a candid glance in his direction, doting on the way his form curled over itself. Like a wilted sprout.

He hiccoughed again.

"Oh, don't be like that," I frowned, moving closer to him. "You know I only want the best for my very loyal, very _obedient_ servant. Hmm?" Every pleasantry in the world I had begun spewing out to him over the last few days as it came down to the wire. It was imperative Vexen listen to me and follow the plan. If I was forced to sweeten the pot (as every good leader had to do once in a while), then so be it. As soon as I got what I wanted, I could always consolidate my policy again.

This time, Vexen made a gurgling noise. Then he gagged.

The plastic stretched taught across the man's gaping mouth and his nose where he had tried with all futility to force more air in. Even with the muscles in his chest moving frantically against his ribs, he was suffocating like this. Vexen was so beautiful when he was desperate.

I moved my hands to cup his strained, hollowed cheeks, the clear plastic of the bag that enveloped his head giving them a smooth, snappish texture. Watching his silent, frozen scream with admiration, I nodded. "Do you understand how I need you to do this? This means everything. When I take my place at the helm of the Organization, you will have your reward. If only because you are the loveliest of them all…" Tenderly I untied the cord around his neck and began rolling the plastic over his chin.

All at once, the atmosphere that Vexen had been denied rushed back in, his deprived mouth sucking it all in with a loud gasp. His chest filled once and then, in the same motion, he leaned over and retched.

Thankfully, it was not in my lap, at least.

"Vexen, are you listening to me?" I chided him, tilting his chin up and using my thumb to dab away a line of saliva in the same motion.

He simply stared with unfocused eyes, panting and choking and swallowing against the bile that had risen in him. Unfocused as they may have been, however, there was an unmistakable slate-coldness chipped in them. "I hate you," he barely managed. "I _hate_ you."

"Nonsense. You don't have a heart in which to hate me with."

"No," he insisted. "I hate you. Powers, I hate you, _I hate you_…"

The conviction in his voice nearly startled me for a moment. It was as though he was beginning to believe it. Him; so clinical, so detached. He couldn't feel a thing (he had claimed time and time again that he couldn't feel a thing) and, yet, here he was proclaiming the presence of such impossible, overbearing feelings.

Perhaps it was just the lack of oxygen to his brain.

I gave him a pat on the cheek and smiled. "That's nice, Vexen. You can hate me all you want. Just get the job done."

Several floors below, Lexaeus reached over and turned out the light.

* * *

"Did you bookmark my page?" I asked, feeling the mattress dip down as he settled back into place.

"Yes."

"Did you ask Axel about the scuffmarks in the upstairs corridor?"

"Yes."

"Did you close the window in the bathroom?"

"Yes."

Satisfied, I rolled over. Every time, Lexaeus always managed to grant my faith unto him. He remembered everything I asked of him, and always did it with haste. Reliable and strong. Useful. "You please me."

"You please me, too."


	9. When They Were Only Halfway Up

Ienzo had a headache that morning. Dilan had acquired a rare bout of food poisoning from bad celery. Elaeus was tending to both of them. Xehanort had been going through a three-week-long 'only talking about sailboats' phase.

Braig, as luck would have it, was the sole member on the 'Get Master Ansem A Date For The Grand Opera' committee that year. This had been very unfortunate.

As was his character, he procrastinated until the very last minute: the day of the opera. And when he found out that none of the women in the castle (or outside of it, for that matter) had any desire to fall into Braig's hands that evening for preparations, he turned to the only person left who wasn't busy.

"Dude, it'll only be for the night. He won't even know it's you."

"No." Even clung to the bedpost, as if it would somehow save his dignity. "Of all the _inane_ things you have made me do over the years…this…_this_ had got to be the _worst._"

"Chill, alright?" He stood in the center of the room, a lavender garment on a hanger clenched in his fist. He looked genuinely concerned at the moment, though it was probably all a put-on. "It's for the greater good."

"Just because you dropped the ball, Braig. Just because you couldn't get your act together, _as usual_—"

"Hey! There's no ball being dropped here—I've _got_ the ball. You _are_ the ball."

"I am a _male_—"

"And you'll look damn good in this dress. Come on, just try it on."

"No."

"For Master Ansem, Even…"

"No!"

Once reasoning with him didn't work, Braig resorted to other measures. And that's how Even found himself in a headlock that somehow involved a clotheshanger and a pillowcase from his own bed. They might have been men, but they still had their spats just as they did years ago as boys.

Forced into hair curlers and stiff women's shoes, Even stood in front of the full-body mirror. His mouth formed a semi-circle frown. "I don't like this. I really, really don't like this."

"Dude," Braig surveyed him up and down, more serious than anyone had seen him in a long time. "You look fantastic. I'd totally do you if you weren't already taken this evening."

"You're not helping."

Braig held up the dress. It was a light purple, silky to show off every nook of the wearer's body. There was lace somewhere around the collar to hide the fact that he had no breasts, but other than that, it was very plain.

Holding his arms above his head, he let Braig slide it onto him. He felt the heel of the other man's hand come down across the rigid mound of his shoulder blade and shifted slightly away. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"Sorry," one of them murmured.

Even tried not to notice as he felt Braig's hot breath panting against his shoulder. He had bent to adjust one of the straps that clung to the thin frame, but was taking too long because his fingers just couldn't find the latch. It was an awkward few moments.

Finally he stepped back. "There. No one will even be able to tell the difference."

"Except Master Ansem." Even blatantly noted the fact that he looked no different. His hair had a slight wave to it and he was in a dress, but his face looked entirely plain as usual. With the bare minimum it needed to pass as a woman, his body was not a very graceful one. His hips were bony and became two bumps underneath the lavender silk. The fabric only came down just above his knees, which were a little knobby.

"We'll fix it," Braig looked over Even's shoulder, just as concerned now that he realized that the addition of a dress did not make a person look all that much different. "Maybe if we slap some makeup on you. Make your eyes bigger, make your nose smaller?"

"You can't do that with makeup."

"You'd be surprised, dude. How else do you think ugly girls get pretty?"

"Touché."

And so, though it took several tries and washes in the sink, Braig and Even explored the science of makeup. They didn't bother recording their findings, for some odd reason.

Miraculously, Ienzo's headache cleared up with a bit of ice. Dilan's severe food poisoning seemed to only have lasted ten hours, leaving Elaeus completely free that evening. Xehanort still wouldn't talk about anything but sailboats, but that was per usual. He was still aloud to crowd the entrance hall with the others. One may have suspected that their previous illnesses had something to do with not wanting to be the one Braig picked on that evening, but that was purely speculative.

Even glared straight ahead to try to avoid acknowledging the other smirking young men. From behind an ornate, white fan (Braig had dug it up from one of the exhibits in the historical wing of the castle, convinced no one would notice or miss it. He realized that makeup, while it did make Even look like a girl, it was still quite obvious that it was, indeed, Even), he waved at Ansem, curling his fingers in a gesture that was a little too half-hearted to be worth merit.

"C'mon," Braig nudged him, escorting him closer. "Just be pleasant. Don't be your usual snarky self or he'll know right away."

"Shut up." Was all he could manage in return, for very soon they were within earshot. And that was when Braig begun his introduction.

"Your Masterdom," he improvised casually, certainly not making an effort to be formal, "may I introduce your Ladydom."

"Pleased to meet you," Even muttered, no more than a whisper so that he had to bother less with trying to sound like a girl.

As if there were some higher being looking out for Even's dignity, Master Ansem simply bowed and took his hand into his own and brought it up to place a peck upon his knuckles. "Likewise."

* * *

It was the morning of the 23rd day that Marluxia and Zexion looked at each other and almost smiled. For, after they had portaled away from their last world, the opened their eyes and were right back where they had been standing before.

The resonance was pulling them back. Finally. This was it.

The world had been cluttered with trees, everything was trees with fairy rings around the trunks, dewdrops scattering everything. All things considering, it was not a bad place. Marluxia rather felt at home.

"Who do you think is here?" Marluxia asked, looking out into a nearby grove, intrigued with a series of paths that seemed to lead to and fro. There was obviously life here. Perhaps semi-civilized life.

"As in, a group of people, or someone from the Organization?"

"Both."

"I don't know who lives here…a jungle tribe of some sort? And I have no idea who would be sent to a world like this."

They were both thinking it, but neither wanted to say it: Vexen or Lexaeus could very well be here. After all, Zexion's death happened right after Lexaeus'. Perhaps their arrangement in the world had to do with how they died.

The first sign of life came from a nearby lagoon. At first, they just stopped to sit on the rocks and share a lunch of bread and cheese from Zexion's (by this time) well-used pack. But no sooner had they begun to talk then something stirred below the black waters. Ripple became bubbles, and bubbles became fins. And suddenly they were not ten feet away from what could only have been classified as 'mermaids.' Women with the lower bodies of fish and pointed, gleaming teeth and gills, sidling right up alongside the water's edge. Marluxia admired them from a distance, while Zexion was simply grateful that they were far enough from the lagoon that they couldn't reach out and touch them. The mermaids were watching them.

"This is an odd world," Zexion muttered as he packed up, a silent gesture that he wanted Marluxia to begin moving on. As much as he was ogling at the women, it was not helping him find Lexaeus.

Stepping through more fairy rings as they tiptoed through paths, they discussed the topography of the land and the variation of fauna and flora they came across. Mostly because there was nothing else to discuss and they were both alright with that.

They must have been talking too loud, because it was not much longer until they heard a wild scream, albeit muffled from the brush, and then something collided with Marluxia's forehead, sending him reeling back.

"_Ow, damnit!_" He pressed the heel of his hand to his temple, right above his left eye. "What _was_ that?"

Zexion, observant, crouched down to where the foreign object had bounced. He picked it up. "It's a walnut." As if about to show Marluxia, he twisted around, but was then caught on the back of his head by another crack of a walnut. He nearly fell flat on his face.

It was then that the rain of walnuts, empty thread spools, and wooden beads commenced, as if from all directions and all angles. Being pelted, it was all Marluxia and Zexion could do to cover their heads with the arms, duck, and run as fast as they could in any direction. Any direction at all. Marluxia hooked one strap of Zexion's bag in his arm, while the schemer took the other strap, determined to stay together.

There were shouts from what seemed like dozens of bodies, high-pitched. Girl-like, almost. They followed them as they ran, obviously efficient in a forest setting, still spackling them with various projectiles from between the branches.

Then: "_Stop!_"

All of a sudden, everything went silent.

Marluxia ground to a halt, consequently catching Zexion and forcing him to rebound back into the taller man's body. Leaves churned under their feet.

"We should keep running," he murmured, a little frantic as pulled at the bag, trying to force the assassin to relinquish it. "We could be killed."

"They said stop," he replied simply, his eyes turned up to the canopy. Nothing moved for the longest time. The birds even had begun singing again.

A blond-haired boy then stepped out into the clearing, wrapped in animal skins and painted in brilliant shades of blue and orange across his flawless, fiercely flushed face. He wore a headdress of feathers, but slowly pulled it off as he approached them, cautiously, a wild beast of thin limbs and curved fingers. Between them, he held pointed, carved wooden reeds. But they clattered suddenly to the ground.

"Marluxia," the boy said. It was clear, then, from the voice's cadence that this was not a male. It was a woman.

"Larxene." Marluxia nearly smiled.

* * *

The carriage ride was awkward. Even sat with his ankles crossed and his arm aching from holding the fan up over his face. Ansem didn't seem too bothered, and they took the first half of the trip in silence.

About fifteen minutes in, though, Ansem turned to him. "Where did you say you were from, again?"

"Far away," Even answered in that same whisper, trying to hide his male tone. "Very far away. Perhaps you've never even heard of it."

"I assure you I have. You underestimate my geographical abilities, my lady," he chuckled, trying to peer around the fan curiously.

"The ocean." As soon as he said it, Even nearly cursed. The _ocean_. Of all the things he could have come up with, of all the regions and worlds, he was from the goddamn _ocean_.

"I see."

Even tried to look out the window and feign disinterest. It lasted a good five minutes before Ansem spoke again.

"No one has eyes like you, Even."

Automatically, he began to reply. "Thank you, Master—" He cut himself off with a shocked frown, turning to stare at the older man, fumbling to try salvaging the situation. Like grappling with an umbrella in hurricane winds. Perhaps he had heard wrong, perhaps, perhaps… "I—I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not…I'm not…"

Ansem just smiled serenely over at him. "Next time Braig tries to disguise you, Even, make sure he gives you a veil to cover your eyes instead of a fan to cover your mouth. Your eyes are much too distinctive."

Even felt himself sinking. All dignity he had to speak of had hit rock bottom—his mentor, his teacher had caught him like this. Like _this_, with his hair in curls and his eyes lined in black. The strap of his dress was falling down one shoulder. "Please," he couldn't bring himself to look at his master. "Please don't say anything to…to anyone. I didn't have a choice. Braig is…is incorrigible." In a sudden flare of rage, he clenched his fists, the delicate frame of the fan snapping in multiple places. He hardly cared, antique or not.

Ansem didn't say anything for a while, eyes flickering once to the broken, tangled fan. There was a lull between them where all they heard were the sounds of traffic outside and the horse's hooves on the cobblestone. Finally, he let a sigh through his nose, leaning just an inch closer to catch Even's attention. "You shouldn't let them bully you."

"I don't. I don't let them do anything."

"But you do." Ansem shook his head. "Look at me."

Even did.

"Even, you are a proud, clever young man. And that's why it surprises me to see how the others seem to…get the better of you."

Not one to engage in talk about emotions and such childish things as 'fairness,' the young scientist kept himself quiet, chin jutting in defiance.

The carriage hit a bump and both of them had to hang onto the seat to keep from being jostled too much.

"You need to not let the others hold such notions over your head. It just seems like they scare you into situations where you're backed against a wall. Is there something you're afraid of? Something they're using against you?"

"No," he answered quickly. "I'm not a coward."

Ansem sat in thought for a few moments, reading the way Even had cast his eyes back out the window again. "You're not a coward," he said. "You're not, Even. But it's still something you have to prove. Or one day someone is going to find your fears and control you with them. Do you hear me, Even?"

Green eyes stared out from under mascara-blackened lashes. "I hear you, Master Ansem." He fiddled with the strap of his dress, pulling it up his shoulder again. "I won't let it happen. I am stronger than that."

"Good." Ansem leaned back, and then glanced out the window once to see they were nearing their arrival. "And Even? Can you do one last thing for me?"

"Yes, Master Ansem?"

"Enjoy yourself tonight."


	10. They Were Neither Up Nor Down

Marluxia and Zexion had been taken back through the jungle, trailed by a pack of prepubescent boys, most even shorter than Zexion. Larxene led at the front, strutting as only she could. The boys must have been the cause of the rain of small, hard objects only moments ago. They seemed curious and effervescent, but Larxene had only twisted around and hollered at them to get them to shut up and follow quietly

They didn't talk much until they got back to a series of large, hollowed-out trees. Zexion and Marluxia were led to some fur mats on the floor where they settled themselves down, not too close to each other, but not too far away, either.

Marluxia's eyes hadn't left Larxene. When she faced him, he looked upon her frazzled hair and strong jaw. When she turned around, he looked at her back. She didn't seem to acknowledge either of them too much, instead focusing herself on ordering the boys around her with a pointed finger and stern words toward those who were ogling and asking questions. Her voice didn't pierce or screech like Marluxia had expected. Instead, she seemed to have taken up a strange role—like an older sister to these bedraggled, smudged children, tutting them along.

When the last one finally scurried out of the room and let the flap down behind him, she whirled straight around, staring down at the two of them. "How?" She nearly demanded. "How are you here?"

"How," Zexion cut in, thoroughly disturbed by this sudden change in her demeanor from the witch he had once known. "How did _you_ end up like this?"

She put her hands on her hips, narrowing her eyes at the schemer. "Like _what_, Bookboy? I'd like to see where _you_ ended up for three years. Like to see you get on with a bunch of miniature terrors. Worse than you, even."

Ah, yes. Marluxia couldn't help but smile as he saw what he had hoped he would see—that spark, that old personality that even nonexistence hadn't kept at bay.

"Look at you," Zexion continued. "You look terrible. You're leading a band of toddlers."

"Hey." She came over to crouch down in front of Zexion to become eye-level with him, purely animalistic, cat-like. "Why don't you shut the hell up? Or would you rather I throw you out to the boys so you can play with kiddies your own size while me and Marluxia have a little chat? Take your pick."

Zexion looked about to push himself up to engage in something more forceful, but Marluxia's arm held him down. "Sit. Be silent."

Grudgingly, the schemer watched as the other man stood, bringing himself face to face with Larxene, wishing to have a private conversation with her. With Zexion, that was hard, but he could at least pretend like they were alone.

"Larxene," he reached out to her, no hesitance when he put his arms around her. He could feel her curves, still, underneath the layers of furs and belts that had hidden them at first glance. She was painted and speckled with dirt, but the rosy flush of her cheeks and the tint of her lips were still vibrant.

She embraced him back, genuinely glad for this sign of her past life, no matter how random the occurrence seemed. "You've got to be one lucky bastard. Or this is a joke, since I never knew that we could…jump worlds or anything anymore."

"Joke's on me if we couldn't." He drew the scythe shard from the place at his neck, and he could tell in her cornflower-blue eyes that she knew exactly what it was. Even as he explained everything about his search, his coming across Zexion, the world web and resonance, she proved her cleverness. Larxene was ready, poised, as if this whole time, she had just been on an extended mission. And here she was, back at Marluxia's side. Back with the one man who she knew could rule every world, every universe. The man she spent so many nights pruning with, confiding in, engaging in mutual games of mind and wit. This was not a new chapter—just a continuation of the old.

"Watch," she hissed to him, close enough to graze his ear with her whispers. "Watch, we'll do it this time. Nothing's slowing us down. Not Xemnas, not the rest of the Organization. McPuny here, well…we can drop him off with my boys and no one will be any the wiser, hmm? You and me, like the good old days, just like—"

Even though she still granted him that same shivering burst of empowerment, that same instant dose of confidence, he had to grasp her arms and take a few steps away from her. "Larxene."

She frowned, looking back at him, not sure what she was supposed to see. Something different? Something changed? It had been three years, yes, but had it really taken so much of Marluxia's will away? Larxene could barely believe it, waiting for his answer and hoping it was better than whatever explanation she was beginning to formulate.

"I can't go back that way. I'm not traveling worlds for power anymore. At least not right now. It's wonderful to see you again, but this isn't…this isn't what I'm here for."

Larxene pressed her lips together, then twisted her spine around to check the door to make sure no one was listening in. She knew now. "He won't see you, you know. Even if you manage to find him, he won't see you."

Somewhere across the room, Zexion snorted.

Larxene afforded him one small glance out of the corner of her eye, as if debating whether or not to go over and rip out a chunk of his hair, but decided instead to sigh, coming closer to Marluxia to hush their conversation more. "Look, doll…I was there when you broke him. And I heard him at night, all the way down the hall. And I was there when you gave Axel the order. You can't pretend as though he'd ever want to even _think_ about you anymore."

Holding his jaw tight, he mulled over her words. "You've always stood next to me. You and I promised each other the impossible—that we'd fight for worlds and power until nothing was too large to be crushed under our feet." One hand lifted to press against her face, his thumb running over her cheek, smearing the paint away. "I need you to do that for me again. Promise me the impossible, Larxene. Promise me Vexen will forgive me."

Zexion watched the both of them, drawn into the way they interacted, as though no time had passed. Marluxia calmed her with his grace and she, in return, offered him a vivacity that he did not have on his own.

A small smile spread upon Larxene's lips underneath the soot. She gave Marluxia's arm a playful punch. "We've got this. By the time we're through, that man will be begging _you_ to come to _him_."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that," he shook his head, unable to help the contagiousness of her smile. "But if you'll stand by me, perhaps…perhaps we'll get what I need."

As if just noticing him, Larxene spotted Zexion still sitting on the fur mat, knees drawn up to his chest. "And let me guess—shrimpy here has his own man to play fetch for."

"Shut it, Larxene," he hissed. "I can't believe I have to deal with _both_ of you morons."

* * *

"Hit him again," Larxene ordered, perched on the mantle of the white fireplace. The flames licked underneath her, but she hardly cared. All but one of her kunai was buried in the wood at her hip. She was delicately cleaning underneath her nails with the other.

"I'm not going to hit him yet," Marluxia protested. "He's been a good boy all evening. Haven't you?"

I could barely keep the acid out of my voice. "If you'd stop being so condescending…"

Marluxia had kept his word. Every move I made under his guiding hand got me the rewards I needed. The letters to Xemnas in my favor were flowing from Castle Oblivion, simply bursting until the point where even the vivacious Number Nine was having trouble wanting to portal in and out as the messenger. All it took was separating myself from Zexion and Lexaeus, keeping myself silent in his presence (though no one could keep my silence when I was alone. At one point, I was sure the walls of my laboratory had had enough), and _this_.

He was buried inside me.

He was not a careless lover. And he was not an inexperienced one, either. He was not a _lover_, quite frankly, though sometimes he pretended he was. When he was rough, it was to hear me snarl and bark and to feel my nails against him. It was him exerting power over me, a wolf hunched over his bitch. When he was gentle and feigning passion, it was as a reward, though I had to admit that I hardly reacted to that sort of passion other than to lie still and allow him. Perhaps that is why he preferred the former more often.

I didn't like any of it, and yet I found myself obeying. Even when I saw the gag in Marluxia's hand, resignation had begun the minute I entered into his chambers. After a while, I grew used to it. It became less painful or, rather, I grew mechanisms to help overcome it. Soon pain was only a secondary way for Marluxia to torment me when he was in one of his moods. Humiliation became the first.

And that was how it came to be that Larxene found her front row seat on Marluxia's mantle. It turned out she had her itches to scratch and Marluxia was the only one here who could fulfill them for her. Not because she let him touch her, oh no. I'd never seen him touching Larxene. It was because he could exhibit the twisted material that she reveled in watching.

"Give him this, then," she demanded, pulling one of her kunai from the woodwork and bending down to stick the tip into the heat of the flames. "If you're not going to hit him, then give him a little something to suck on."

I watched as Marluxia turned his head toward her to consider, the column of his neck stark in the firelight. He seemed undecided; he was weighing the benefits and disadvantages. I had been compliant that evening, relatively sound. But now that he had Larxene here, he had to keep her content and shrieking, too. Finally, he glanced back at me. Our eyes met.

"Don't." I ordered, temper beginning to flare up.

His expression didn't change from that semi-bored, disinterested leer. "Larxene—"

"_Don't you dare_."

Marluxia ignored me. "—bring it here if you so insist."

Triumphant, she scooted down from her perch and sauntered toward the bed. Her form was outlined black against the firelight backlighting. Only the red glow from the tip of her kunai remained to light up the bare contours of her face. She was smiling.

Strong fingers pried my jaw open. They were Marluxia's fingers, which tightened as I tried to swear at him, my eyes never losing their venom. He looked down his nose, arrogance written in every feature, every gesture. And I hated him.

"Just think of it as a spicy lollypop, hmm?" Larxene's voice tugged at the hairs on my neck. Her arm pressed across my chest. "Ay caramba."

Red glow filled my vision until I was looking nearly cross-eyed. I felt the heat on my face, blistering my lips as it passed. I took a deep breath, because I would need it.


	11. Why Does The Lamb Love Mary So?

I remembered when I looked him in the eyes and realized, as if for the first time, that he was no longer Xehanort. I was down on one knee before him. This man—this boy—who used to bow to _me_ and talk to his glass of milk at breakfast was now twirling a lock of hair betwixt his fingers, strange orange eyes fixed upon the sky.

"I want you to make me something." He said, his voice far deeper than I ever remembered it to be. "I want it to be…sublime."

"Sublime, my superior?" I asked.

"Sublime, sublime…sublimate!" He seemed to make his own personal discovery, his eyes widening. "I want you, Number Four, with the help of Number Five and Six, to create for me a container for these hearts that wander our world. I want it to sublimate."

I weighed the option of just letting it go with that. Ah, but would I be able to read his mind and concoct exactly what he prescribed? Probably not, so I supplied, "Sir, why sublimate?"

"Like dry ice. Never liquid; always gas, always solid. I want to see those clouds of white funnel through the sky. No, not white. Black. I want black sublimation, Number Four. Right there—do you see where I'm pointing?"

Indeed, his outstretched arm cast his direction. Right in the most prominent part of the night sky, where the stars were not stars, but wandering hearts. I could see it now, this great item for collecting those hearts deep within. My mind went from calculation and formula to another. Perhaps with the proper tools, yes. Perhaps I could get darkness to work for my benefit, yes. If I had all the equipment, time, and books, I could do this. However…

"But sir, I don't even have a properly calibrated barometer. No one has even attempted something, and guarantee there is no research to base—"

"Four, you are trying my patience. Do not start off on the wrong foot with me."

Though it sounded like a threat, I realized later—somewhere between the constant humiliation, the leers from the neophytes, and craning my neck in the lowest chair in Where Nothing Gathers—that it was a fact. If I had only held my tongue… But I could never hold my tongue. Not in this life, the last, or the first. Not even as the bile filled my gut out of fear of him.

"I was only suggestion, my Superior." I swallowed any other words that had risen to my throat. "I shall do as you ask."

And so it was. Using darkness, chemistry, and everything in-between, I came to stand before a shining, sublimating container in the sky. Eyes of all colors turned upwards to gaze upon it. They called it Kingdom Hearts. And as I tore my goggles from my face, I saw something more terrible than the darkness that had helped create it.

* * *

Zexion found having Larxene with them as they traveled worlds to be unnerving. In the darkness, they formed a ring, linking arms with each other. The undesirable people who hooked arms with him were his only barrier between safety and the all-devour darkness.

Larxene, for all purposes, has been a self-consumed brat. Her time in the Organization has been spent as if the whole thing was purely for her own amusement. And Marluxia certainly had done nothing but encourage this—she was like his little lap kitten, prowling around after him and watching events out of the corners of her eyes.

Zexion decided she probably wasn't going to be any different now than she had been before. He could only hope that the next world they were being drawn to had someone on his side. Like Lexaeus. Or even Xaldin would have been appreciated company.

"Remember the good old days?" Larxene said as she leaned against a nearby brick wall in the dense of an alley somewhere. "Remember when we were scary all the time? People would run away from us?"

Marluxia sat across from her, knees drawn up. "Good old days," he murmured. "Not of the grand sort anymore."

"Better than being Nobodies? Maybe?" she suggested.

"Maybe," he agreed.

The smell of soot filled their nostrils as they waited for nightfall. They would sleep in that world for the night, and then travel onwards. The resonance of their former comrades was calling to them and somewhere, dozens of worlds away, Xigbar flipped a coin.

* * *

"E-5."

"Miss."

"G-1."

"Miss."

Vexen pursed his lips and made a frustrated noise. "Zexion, you have got to be moving your ships, this is ridiculous."

The diminutive schemer just folded his hands on his lap and sat back in his chair. "B-6."

I had to look away to hide the small smile as Vexen nearly threw himself from his seat. The man had never been a good loser, though, in all fairness, Zexion had never been a good winner. He was smug, which only made Vexen's face redder.

"Did I sink your battleship, Four?"

Vexen did not deign to reply and, instead, began meticulously plucking the pegs from his board with thin, nimble fingers. It was the same plucking motion one used to pull feathers, though not gentle, never gentle with the academic.

"Another game?" Zexion offered, blinking up at the scientist in faux innocence.

As if having to convince himself of Zexion's integrity, Vexen stood up and peered over the table to confirm that, yes, Zexion had all of his battleships on the board, simply arranged strategically. This may have simply put him off more. "Fine. Just one more while I wait for the centrifuge to time out."

I sat back and watched as they set up their new boards, quiet. Not much needed to be said. It was just a typical evening in the castle.

Zexion put a finger to his chin as he formulated his new arrangement, calculating the statistics in his head. "So, Vexen…"

"Hmm?"

"…I've simply noticed you've been spending a lot of time topside lately."

The academic froze up a little, the piece in his fingers slipping the pegs. "What do you mean?"

"I'm simply stating a fact. I don't _mean_ anything by it." Zexion's tone was pleasant and casual in the way I knew too well. He did mean something by what he was saying. "You know I am not naïve enough to come to conclusions prematurely."

Vexen automatically glanced up at me, as if hoping that something in my face would reflect what the other man was intending. He seemed to acknowledge us as one entity. But by the way he turned back disgruntled, he received nothing from my flat stare. "I don't see how you can accuse me of 'spending a lot of time topside _lately_' when we've been here such a short while. A month at most."

"Perhaps I'm simply cross-referencing the fact that you haven't been in your laboratory as much as usual."

Zexion was trying to draw something out of Vexen. That much was obvious. But it didn't seem much use—he was much too clammed up and defensive.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Every single one of my experiments from Never Was has been carried over to this place without so much as a flaw."

"I think—" I shifted to lean one elbow on the arm of my chair, noting how both of their heads turned immediately in my direction. "I think Zexion intends to imply that you have taken a specific interest in the neophytes of this castle."

Vexen stared for a moment, green eyes trying to read me while mine read him back. How long had we known even the deepest pits of each other's habits and thoughts? Since childhood? Some things changed behind his face, some things had stayed the same. I could tell the day he had gotten his first kiss at Radiant Gardens. He kept constantly rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth, even while hunched over notepaper and chromatography plates. I knew that much, but he never did say who it was he kissed.

I watched his fear of Xemnas develop. How he was always looking past the man, never at him. As if he wished he were a ghost all along and would just disappear into the atmosphere as quickly as Xehanort had appeared on our doorstep those many long years ago.

Now I saw something different. It was disquieting, admittedly. Because it looked for all the world like he knew his entire life (non-life or otherwise) rested on keeping me out.

"Perhaps I was sent to keep an eye on them," he said, focusing firmly back on the board. He pushed his last piece into place.

Zexion squared his jaw at me. I understood.

"A-6," the schemer said, rolling a peg between his fingers.

Vexen's teeth audibly ground together. "Hit."


	12. Mary Loves The Lamb, You Know

Lexaeus kept his concentration on the printed report, pretending he didn't see the pair of eyes that were watching his every movement, whether it was a flip of a page or a shift in the seat. Ever time he did, the floorboards creaked—a large man such as him seemed to elicit a constant course of noises from the primitive frames of this world's buildings. Even the Police Station had plucky wood floors.

The boy watching seemed to give up on silence. "They're gonna put me in jail, ain't they?"

"No," Lexaeus said. He didn't say it loudly or harshly, and yet the boy still jumped. Perhaps the poor thing was nervous. It certainly looked that way, at least. He was worrying his lower lip with gapped, ivory teeth. His parents had not been able to afford a dentist. Not many in the lower class could. Even middle class families were pressed.

"I didn't mean t' hit nobody," he piped up again. "Just got…defensive is all."

"You're not going to get in trouble, Arthur." The large man put down the ink-blotted report and rested his palms on the flat of the desk. His hat sat beside him, cast off in the coal heat of the building's furnace (it had been snowing all day to form a white film layer over the streets and sills of every building). The bruise on the side of his head was visible, a murky purple now. "I've talked to the Marshal. All I'm going to do is have a talk with your parents and then let you go. But that means you're going to have to show me where you live. Do you understand?"

Arthur stared at Lexaeus. "I would. If you wanna go to Poland…"

Lexaeus frowned. Perhaps it made him look more frightening, though he didn't intend to appear so. "Your parents sent you to New York alone?"

"No," he narrowed his eyes in return back, puffing himself up. "I got me two sisters with me."

"Younger?"

"Course."

This was not helpful. Lexaeus couldn't just let him go free—he had broken the law, after all, by assaulting an officer. But it seemed wrong to put him in jail. With two younger sisters to take care of, it was impossible for Lexaeus to handle the mere thought without guilt stirring in his chest. "Where are your sisters now?"

Arthur Luft shrugged, saucer-sized eyes staring back at him.

Lexaeus sighed, looked at the clock, and then at his hands. "Arthur, can you take me to where your sisters are?"

"They somewhere between here and the bridge."

"Do they have someplace to stay?"

"Maybe. Some nights."

This was one of those times Lexaeus wished he didn't have a heart. "You meant to tell me that it is below freezing outside and your sisters may still be on the streets? At this hour?" It was obvious, then (if it hadn't been painfully so before), that this was an eleven year-old boy sitting before him. Why was the police department grappling with these lost souls? They were just children.

Once again, Lexaeus looked at the clock. It was nearing eleven thirty. It was either let him go to the streets to freeze or keep him in jail overnight, and at that point, he would be in jail for as long as the Marshall saw fit. The boy could have been in there for weeks, when it came down to it.

He just didn't have the heart. "Arthur, do you have a coat with you?"

The boy shook his head 'no.'

Lexaeus stood up from his desk, fingers reaching for the polished brass buttons on his own uniform coat. "Then take mine. You'll be cold."

"Where are we going?" Arthur took the jacket that Lexaeus shrugged off. It was heavy and dense, and much too large for him. The cuffs hung past his knees and the hem sat against his ankles.

"I'm going to give you someplace to stay tonight." He began turning down the lamps, filing the last few things he needed to before leaving his office. "Come with me." He pushed the door open.

Arthur couldn't say he wasn't a bit afraid of the larger man. He slunk out.

The snow fell thick, but quiet. It was an odd scene for the streetlights to watch. A large man missing half of his uniform, exposed to the frantic winds and accompanied by a young boy in a dragging coat, appearing as no more than a dark shape behind a white curtain. He stepped in Lexaeus' footprints so as not to get snow in his shoes.

Lexaeus lived in a tenement not more than three blocks away from the Station. It was small, only two rooms. A bedroom with a stove for heat and a watercloset. He had furnished it up over the years with an armchair and a shelf where he had stacked a few books and a chess set. A trunk at the foot of the bed held linens and his spare clothes.

Arthur shrugged off Lexaeus' coat, dropping it in the doorway as he proceeded to look around the room. "It's small."

"I live by myself," he supplied, bending down to pick the coat from the floor and shake the snow off. "I don't need much."

"But you're a copper," he tromped in further, curious eleven year-old eyes exploring everything. He tested the stove to see if it was on—it wasn't. He patted to the shelf and picked up a chess piece to roll between his fingers. "Don't you all live in mansions n' stuff?"

"No." Lexaeus hung up the coat and then went to start a fire in the stove. It wasn't much warmer in the apartment than it was outside. "I have no need for that."

While the man was lighting a match, the delinquent found the armchair and immediately scrambled into it. The man had money, he decided, running his hands up and down the upholstery—it was a nice armchair, really.

By the time Lexaeus had lit the stove and closed the grating, Arthur had fallen asleep. Slouched in the armchair, chin tucked down on his chest. He was just a boy who had stayed up long past his bedtime. Truthfully, the man hadn't expected him to fall asleep so quickly or to be so trusting—he knew Zexion would have never followed any stranger home, and nor would he have fallen asleep. There was a desperation in doing so that tugged at Lexaeus' chest.

With sympathy toward the cold, he tucked a blanket around the boy, then knelt to remove his shoes. Deft fingers plucked at the laces and delicately grasped each ankle to slide them off, and then set them in front of the stove to dry them come morning.

* * *

"Kid's on his deathbed," Braig breathed. "_Again_."

"Well, obviously, you're driving him there," Even snapped. "Because he wasn't having problems until we moved him into your wing of the castle."

"Ever thought the fact that workin' on Master Ansem's latest project with _you_ was the problem?"

"Oh, shut up, you great, annoying—"

"Please," Elaeus cut in. "Even. Is he in his room?"

The blonde gave a curt nod. "He hasn't moved since this morning. Dilan tried getting him to eat, but…"

Elaeus didn't even wait to listen to his voice trailing off. Ienzo was his responsibility. He had been since he first came to the castle. It was him who had taken the boy's hand (only to have it promptly tugged back, as Ienzo was not a normal child and did not like coddling) and given him his first tour of the castle. It was him who came rushing to his side after he had been knocked down by a wayward pony on the polo fields. And it had been Elaeus who had nursed every bruise, tended every scrape…

The doors in the castle were sturdy and heavy, and yet they were built well enough to be silent as they opened. Ienzo didn't even open his eyes. They were ringed in black and swollen.

"Ienzo," Elaeus closed the door behind him, leaning his back against the frame. There was concern written on his broad brow, and for a moment, he was afraid to enter. When the tiny noble didn't answer, his concern merely grew.

The chair creaked as he sat down in it, surveying the boy tucked underneath starch-white sheets. He was pale and thin, sickly by all standards. But _beautiful_. Nothing compared to the slight upward curve of his nose, or the way the tips of each tender lip pouted. The boy was _beautiful_, and Elaeus couldn't stand it sometimes. It made him feel ill.

It was obvious Dilan had been in there earlier. There was a thermos of still-warm broth still sitting on the bedside table, spoon set on a dry towel. Sitting alongside it was an icepack, presumably to help keep the fever down.

Elaeus reached out to place a hand on Ienzo's forehead, dwarfing him completely.

Once, Ienzo had told him that friendship was an illusion. That the bonds they felt were nothing more than their longing for lost childhoods or dead pets.

Elaeus did not believe him. He let a heavy sigh through his nose and picked up the icepack, gently placing it on Ienzo's proud forehead, balancing it against the pillow.

The cold roused the boy and sleepy, drained eyes flickered open. He barely could turn his head, but it was enough to see the familiar shoulder outlined against the window. "I knew you'd be here," he croaked.

Elaeus sat still.

"You're always here…when I wake up." A thick cough wracked his body, thin arms rising from the bed with the force brittle, young bones weren't meant to handle. It made his body ache all over. "You. Sit here for hours. Why?"

"I just arrived," Elaeus corrected solemnly.

"And you will sit here until I am well again. Why?"

Elaeus didn't answer. He simply reached out to drag the covers back up over the boy's body where his coughing fit had pushed it down. Thin fingers clamped around his wrist. They were small and weak, but he dared not pull away. He let the hand pull him closer and closer until he was leaning over Ienzo and the boy didn't need to turn his head to see him properly.

"Elaeus."

The man gently smudged a grain of sleep from the corner of Ienzo's eye.

"Don't avoid the subject." Ienzo batted his hand away feebly, petulant and obstinate. "You're here, aren't you? You won't leave me."

"I won't." Elaeus affirmed. There was not a drop of doubt in his voice, not even an expression that crossed his face.

Ienzo stared back. His chin tilted defiantly, ill as he was. For a moment, it appeared as though he would brush the man off again. Then, "You promise?"

Elaeus didn't answer. Against his better judgment, he put all of his faith in his immune system and leaned down (gently, ever-so-gently), to set his lips against Ienzo's. Perhaps, by other's standards, it wasn't the best first kiss—Ienzo's lips were a little chapped and Elaeus had to tilt his head in a way that strained his neck. But for them, it was the beginning of something that would span lifetimes.

* * *

Xigbar chewed on the end of a cigar. He patted his waist to make sure he still had his tommy gun. He straightened the lapels of his jacket. Then he strode from the alley, the sound of shoes of damp concrete following him. He flipped his hat up once to get a better glimpse of the dark figures ahead, dense Chicago air rushing past his bared, grinning teeth.

Flicking the cigar to the side, he hefted the gun to his hand, pacing himself briskly as the men he was following turned the corner. Everything was going just as planned—the tip-off had been a real help. As he raised his gun to shoot out the streetlight ahead, he nearly ran slap-bang into a hard body coming around the corner at the same time.

The gun flew from his hand, thankfully, as they all ended up in a crumpled heap on the ground. There was a lot of swearing and some forceful fists until the confusion died down.

"Xigbar!"

One eye flickered up, only to see Zexion perhaps the happiest he'd seen him. He couldn't fathom why until he saw Marluxia and Larxene disentangling themselves from the lamppost not two feet to the right. There were so many questions, it seemed. And, yet, all he could do at that moment was grin out of one side of his face. "How's it hangin'?"


	13. And Here He Is Saying His Prayers

Sometimes, it wasn't so forced. It was an elaborate game of pretend, of course, and we both knew that. They were the nights where Marluxia didn't invite Larxene. Sometimes he opened a bottle of wine or spread flower petals in my hair as it fanned out across the pillow. They were the nights where we didn't talk about Xemnas or Kingdom Hearts or power.

I realized too late that the evenings I spent with Marluxia had become a habit. And, as Nobodies relied on habit and order, it had inherently become less threatening. I would brush my hair and perhaps scrub my hands of any remaining chemicals before portaling up to him. And he would be waiting, a rose outstretched in his hand. It was almost a sweet gesture, but he never removed the thorns. After the weeks, my fingers had nearly been pricked raw from carelessly accepting it.

The nights were followed by mornings. White bedsheets were pulled taught over his chest and the dark shadows of the window frames ran across the room like grating. I only ever stayed the night a few times, usually when I couldn't be bothered to hate him as vehemently.

I think those nights and mornings were the only good thing about what happened in Castle Oblivion.

* * *

There were so many bad things that had happened. I had lost track of the number of times Vexen had tried to push me away, claiming I was hurting him and I never listened. There were many nights where his pleasure had gone unaccounted for.

One night, though…one night he looked at me with those green eyes and there was something missing. All that vile hatred had drained out of them. Perhaps it was because we had actually bothered with faux-tender foreplay. Or maybe it was just the small way I insisted he stay, just for five more minutes. We hadn't bitten, scratched, fought… he turned to me and said, "What will you do?"

"What do you mean? Now? Sleep."

"No. I mean, when you take over."

We rarely talked about it in those terms. But it was better to be blunt. We both knew what was going on. "I'm not sure now is a good time to discuss it. You look like you'll fall asleep soon."

"Then make it brief," he said. One bony shoulder poked above the blankets. There were two freckles there, I had come to learn. For some reason, I could never bring myself to bite that shoulder, as if those freckles were more sensitive than the rest of the skin there. I bit his other shoulder instead, when I felt the need to. I hadn't tonight. His neck was devoid of marks, though his mouth had been thoroughly kissed into a light shade of red.

"Xemnas is an insane man," I said. "You know this. I simply wish to procure a way to gain our hearts back in a way that is more reasonable than his. If I manage to affiliate myself with more power, it is purely by chance."

"Really, I never thought you would bother to create such trivial lies around me."

"I never thought you'd expect me to answer honestly."

His eyes flickered to the ceiling. "Touché." Vexen probably could have argued more, but perhaps he was just tired.

I watched him for a moment as his body relaxed. It was such a vulnerable form—brittle bones and bruisable flesh. Amazing how the man inside could make that body so defensive. "All you need to know," I whispered, reaching out to brush a finger over the freckles of his shoulder, "Is that when the time comes, you will be spared. And you will be above those who did not choose to follow me."

He slowly nodded. Perhaps he was already half asleep, perhaps he simply didn't care to approve more than he felt he needed to. By the time I leaned over to kiss his shoulder, he was already asleep.

* * *

Marluxia thought only of those evenings. Moments like those were the only things that could possibly allow Vexen to look him in the eyes again. He clung to those memories, wrote them down hundreds of times. On walls, on paper, on floors. Any world he had visited bared his story and memory of those evenings he longed not to forget. In his breast pocket, he carried a small folded page ripped from a diary he had thrown away a long time ago. Written on it was every detail he remembered about Vexen the first day he saw him genuinely smile. He planned on giving it to him if he saw him again. So that even if he refused to talk, he could still read and maybe come to understand…

* * *

The four of them sat down in a dark room on the other side of town. They'd had to walk there, but it gave them time to talk about how they showed up in Xigbar's world. The one-eyed man flipped a coin the whole time. And, when Larxene got fed up and snatched the coin out of midair, he flipped his hat for the rest of the walk instead.

"So you mean to tell me," he leaned over a cup of coffee. "You're all here out to find the rest. And you want me to come with?"

"We _need_ you to come with us," Marluxia explained. "Resonance would pull us back if you didn't."

"Uh-huh." Xigbar chewed on the side of his cheek. He looked undecided for a moment, but then leaned back in his chair. "Alright, then. I'm always up for a good ride. Been getting boring around here anyway."

Zexion doubted things were getting 'boring' on Xigbar's half of the universes. He'd never been able to keep anything dull. At the very least, he was just itching for some other world to conquer and goof around in. But the schemer was at least a little pleased. He'd been worried about being pushed around by Marluxia and Larxene, but the new addition to their 'team' would balance things out. He and Xigbar had never been especially close, but their history as apprentices solidified their loyalty.

They spent that night on cots in the back of a warehouse. Xigbar left, saying he had 'unfinished business.' When morning rolled around, he stumbled through the door with several black cases and a bullet hole through the brim of his fedora. But he was still grinning as he walked over to the foot of Marluxia's cot and tossed one of the cases onto his lap. The springs squeaked at the sudden weight.

"Early Christmas, boys. And lady." He tossed Larxene and Zexion each a case, too.

Confused (and ruffled, as Xigbar bursting in was somewhat of a rude awakening), Marluxia flipped open the latches on the case and lifted the lid. Inside was a rifle. He blinked. "You can't be serious…"

Zexion and Larxene lifted the lids to their machine gun and Winchester.

"Sorry it's not the usual quality, but I was kinda in a pinch." Xigbar shrugged with a lopsided grin. "I just figured we'd need a little something extra."

"Wow," Larxene murmured, eyes shining. "I'm impressed, old man. Who knew you gave such good Christmas gifts? And here I was, just going to get you a pair of socks."

"Thank me later, then," he cocked his hat, hand on hip.

They stepped into a portal an hour later, guns either holstered or strapped to their backs. When they emerged, they were confronted by a giant white object that towered above them. They were on a steep hillside, knotted with brambles and desert greenery. It took a second of stepping back to see that the giant white object was actually an 'O'. It took even more steps back to see that it was actually a mammoth sign that read 'HOLLYWOOD.'

* * *

Vexen sat at the common room table with a pen in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. The screams of test sirens in the background walked intermittently, but that was routine for the second Tuesday of every month. He always wondered what would happen if an emergency happened on the second Tuesday of one month…it could very likely go unnoticed.

"Dr. Dunner," one of his associates, younger, walked up to him, clutching a manila folder with something written in red on the outside. "Dr. Williams sent me. He said he'd like to speak with you."

Vexen frowned, but was not terribly worried. His research had been progressing well, so perhaps there was just a small element that the project leader had wanted to discuss with him. He pocketed his pen and left his half-empty coffee mug in the faculty sink to come back and wash later. "Right away?"

"Right away, Sir. I don't know what it's about but…"

Vexen gave him an appreciative look and thanked him and headed toward the supervisor's office. It was just one hallway from the common room at the research facility and the door was open. He let himself in and closed the door behind him. The radio was on playing a catchy, bubbly tune. But when Williams turned around in his chair, it was clear the radio was not very fitting for this moment. The man's thick brows knotted, slightly aged jaw line drooping with concern. "Dr. Dunner. Please sit."

Vexen did, smoothing his pullover. "Is there something wrong?" It was obvious something was. Williams had leaned over to switch the radio off, cutting the room into complete silence.

"Yes. This is an…odd situation." He began, steepling his knotted fingers. "You know of my connections in the government agencies working on some of the projects related to ours."

"I do," Vexen nodded. The first thing that went through his mind was the terrifying prospect that someone in the government was stealing his research. "Please, go on."

"I just got word…from one of my friends of a rather shocking discovery." Williams planted his eyes on a report in front of him, refusing to move from that spot. "He'd been working in communications. Radio transmissions, really. He'd been trying to use radio waves to pick up on some orbiting objects just outside of the atmosphere. But in the recording he got back, well…I think you should listen."

"This isn't Area 51," Vexen noted with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, forgetting that particular reference would not have made any sense at that point in time. He often got ahead of himself.

"Just listen." The project supervisor pulled a record from a slim folder. He put in the player, turning it so the speaker grating was facing Vexen.

At first, it was just static. And then, faintly, wafted a voice from the void. "H-hey…is anybody there?" There was more static for a while, in which Vexen glanced up to Williams to catch his white face staring intently at the record player. He looked back down at the voice began again, eerie and distant. "Hey, listen…um. If there's anyone there, I just…I just have a few questions, okay? Don't get freaked out, because I'm totally not going to do anything weird, but, um…I'm from another world. Right now, I guess. But I'm looking for people…so if you have these people…um…" There was a crinkling of paper, as if someone was opening a list. "Xemnas. Xigbar. Xaldin. Vexen. Lexaeus…" And the list kept going. But Vexen barely heard the rest. He was rigid in his seat.

Dr. Williams shot a look at Vexen. Both of their faces were drawn.

"Tell me this is a prank, Dr. Dunner. Tell me this is just a nephew or someone that just happened to be on the radio at the right frequency at the right time…"

Slowly, Vexen shook his head. "I have no family. But this is…it's…impossible." Names he hadn't heard in three years were finally being spoken aloud. He had to wonder if he was a hallucination of some sort…bad coffee, bad creamer…

The record fizzled out and went silent for a few seconds. Then it started up again. "H-hey….is anybody there?..."

The blonde academic swallowed something thick in his throat. "Would it be possible for me to…to talk with the scientist who recorded this? I mean, what he's recording…has there been any more transmissions? Anything?"

"Not that I know of. This only happened a few days ago, and it's only by chance I recognized your name. It's a…very odd first name, I must say."

"Serbian," he automatically replied, eyes wide and fixed on the still-playing radio.

"…Lexaeus. Zexion. Saïx. Axel. Luxord. Marluxia. Larxene. So yeah. If anyone's out there…I want to come find you. Later, um…over and out, I guess?"


	14. Hide His Head Under His Wing

Vexen sat with his back straight and his hands in his lap. "Dr. Jones. Thank you for letting me come."

"No, thank you. I'm very, very curious as to what forces are behind these transmissions."

"Has there been any other recordings?" Vexen asked, trying to keep himself collected. The previous evening, he had gone home and stared at the blank pages of his journal. He hadn't written in it for months. Of all the times he should have been able to dig up new memories or expand upon his theories, it should have been _then_ when his history had been validated for the first time in three years. When it had been a fact that it wasn't all just made up. But he couldn't even bring himself to pick up his pen. He sat empty.

"We sent out a transmission this morning in response. The radio back was almost immediate."

Vexen swallowed. "Can I hear it? What did it say?"

"I'll play it for you. But we need answers."

"Yes, yes, of course." He sat forward in his seat a little. Part of him craved to know what else had been said. The other part of him was tense.

The record started playing, rolling with the same static as before. "Oh, _golly_…you've got no idea how glad I am that this is going through. Look, I'm really not here to cause trouble. I'm just…well…I need to talk to these guys. Really. So…whatever you can do'd be great." The record clicked off.

Vexen was still with a tight expression on his face.

The other scientist regarded the tape with an expression of worry and then glanced back at him. "So. What do you make of it?"

"…would it be possible for me to send him a message back?"

The scientist frowned. "That would imply that you had something to say to whoever was on the other end."

Vexen was nearly fevered as he rattled, "Well, you're scientists aren't you? You can't disclude possibilities until they've been proven wrong, right? And so far, the possibility that this is another world he's transmitting from and he _is_ asking for me cannot be proven false."

"But it hasn't been proven anywhere near true." Jones narrowed his eyes. "And, might I point out that you are also a scientist?"

"Not the same kind as you," he pointed a finger. "You study elements and menial things. I study darkness."

This came as quite an ego blow to the other researcher, having someone talking to him like that. The man may not have been his younger, but he was not his elder, either. "Darkness? That's not a science. It has nothing to do with the transmissions."

"But it _does_," Vexen implored him to listen. "These transmissions aren't coming from outer space. Darkness is facilitating it. The darkness that clouds your world, holding the seams of your realm together. Someone is breaking the seal. That someone is…well…" He didn't want to give away too much. Instead he shook his head. "I need to talk to them. Record what I say to him, if you wish just…keep it a secret."

Jones stared at him. "You're crazy. Why did Williams send you to me?"

"Just promise. I _need_ to do this. Sign me onto the project if you must. Just let me."

"…you know something we don't."

"I do."

"And you won't breathe a word of it, will you?"

"Not a word. Not to you. Not yet. Probably not ever."

Jones looked out the window for a moment and picked up a pencil to chew at. "I barely know you, Dunner." He fiddled with the corner of a paper. "I _do_ know that you showed up at Williams' company without any past. No university, no family, no social security number…"

"Shipwrecked."

Jones quirked a smile, obviously not believing a word of it. "Of course. Shipwrecked from Serbia."

Vexen had taken his seat again, nervously regarding the record player as if it would jump to life again. "I know. But you have my research. You know of my credentials."

"I know. Which is why I'll sign you on."

Vexen felt himself relax inside, his stomach unclenching. "Thank you."

* * *

"I _know_ this place," Xigbar snapped his fingers. "This is Hollywood, dudes!"

"Thank you, Captain Obvious," Zexion murmured, still looking up at the giant white sign.

"No, we're in California. This is where all the big movies are made and stuff. America…"

Marluxia stomped his boots of dust and began leading the group down the precarious hill. "So we haven't moved?" He furrowed his brows. "Your city was in America, too, wasn't it?"

"Chicago, yeah," Xigbar said. "So I dunno what's going on."

As they found their way to a road, they looked up at a billboard reading 'Play refreshed.' They stared up at it for a while.

"Coca cola, huh?" Larxene murmured under her breath. "This doesn't look like from your time period, Xigbar."

"Yeah," he studied it. "Maybe we skipped forward in time, different place. Good as another world?"

Zexion piped up. "Or maybe it is a copy of your world. Displaced in time and place, but a different layer to this same setting, in a sense. Remember the research we had done on London?"

"So long ago," Xigbar said, shouldering his gun. "But yeah. I remember that."

"Huh." Larxene put her hands on her hips. "Well, that's magical. So let's get outta here."

Everyone seemed to agree silently and circled up. No one was coming down the highway, so it shouldn't matter if they portaled out like they were, arms hooked together. Marluxia held up his scythe shard, too used to this whole procedure to not be utterly used to it by now.

The darkness blew around them, ruffling their hair into their eyes.

Zexion felt everything still and looked up. Larxene was across from him in the circle, eyes still closed (it was reflex, as though it would keep the darkness from getting in). Over Larxene's head was the large white lettering: 'Hollywood.'

"Gentlemen," he murmured. "I think we've got another one."

* * *

Vexen looked back over his shoulder. Though the glass, Dr. Jones and most of his team sat surrounded by the recording equipment. They gave him a thumbs up. One man held up a sign that said 'CONNECTED.'

Turning around, Vexen faced the blank grating, as though it had a consciousness and were an actual person. He picked a short, blonde hair off his sweater. "Hello?" He ventured. Not the strongest start, but what did one say to a person who may or may not have been there?

A thick silence fell, and for a moment, Vexen thought he would be disappointed. But then there was an answer, "Hey. _Hey!_ Y-you're talking to me! Hi, yeah, I'm totally here. I can totally hear you!"

"Demyx," Vexen crossed his arms over his chest, holding his elbows. "It's me. Number Four. Erm…Vexen."

The uninhibited, gleeful noise on the other end of the radio nearly made Vexen smile. He didn't know why, but there was something about the whole situation that was so therapeutic. "You sent for me," he continued. "You're really lucky they found me, you know."

"I _know_, but I really don't have anything else I can do. I've been finding out how to control all these things and, gosh, it's kind of confusing, but…I've figured most of it out. And I really kinda didn't expect to reach any of you guys! Since, you know, I guessed with this kind of technology, you'd all be figuring it out before me. _Woo_. Unless you were avoiding me on purpose—"

Vexen braced himself with a hand on either side of the grating. "No, you must be on a world with more superior technology than ours. I'm just…surprised."

"Surprised? How?"

"Well," he ventured, "that you spent this much time trying to connect with the others. I mean, I'll be honest: I haven't spent even one minute on trying to get back."

"That's because you didn't like any of them," Demyx said, the voice of reason. "I liked them. Especially Xigbar. Even though he got kind of annoyed at me sometimes…" He trailed off into something that might have been a memory. The silence lasted only a short while before Demyx was bubbly again. "But, hey! You're smart, so we'll figure out a way, right? I mean, I've gotten this far."

Vexen visibly cringed. It was a good thing Demyx couldn't see it. "Erm…yes, well…I'm not sure I'm willing to work on that."

"Why _not?_"

"I just don't want to, alright?" He snapped in that defensive way of people who had something to hide. "Look, I'm sure with just a little more searching, you'll come across someone else. Just forget you found me. Forget it ever happened."

The sound of Demyx's voice made it clear he was frowning heavily, pouting. "But I've spent two years learning this equipment! And I've spent a year just looking, alright?"

"Well, now you know that I exist. That's something, isn't it? Why must you even look for the others? Get over the past and realize that there are other people to meet and other victories to achieve."

There was a silence on the other end for a moment. Then, Demyx peeped, "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't? Don't be ridiculous."

"No, Vexen I…" He let out a shuddered breath. "There's no one else here. I'm alone."

Suddenly, the scientist ran out of anything to say. Surely Demyx couldn't mean he was alone. _Alone_ alone…that would be inane. It would be impossible. It would be…

…sad.

"All that's left of this place is some ruins," he explained, a little shaken. "There's not even any bones or anything, which is a good thing, I guess. But…and then there are these glowing rock bits that I'm using and stuff…mostly just have symbols on them."

"H-how do you _survive?_" Vexen asked, much more concerned with how the somewhat inept young man hadn't keeled over within the first week of being there.

"Well, there's actually this grassy stuff that's pretty good when you cook it. Tastes like…hmm…hard to describe. But, yeah, I've pretty much been eating that. It's nutritious!"

Vexen had to glance back over his shoulder to look at the scientists on the other side of the glass. They were all watching him with rapt attention, almost unable to believe what was happening.

"Hey, just…just don't leave me, okay?" Demyx pleaded. "I don't care if you don't like me or whatever, but…I don't wanna be alone forever. Not like this."

Against his better judgment, Vexen nodded. "Okay, Demyx. I won't leave you."


	15. The North Wind Doth Blow

"Vexen. You should sit down."

The gaunt man stood before me, a skeleton in every way. He was pale, bruised in yellow, and stiff at the joints. I could tell from the way his hollowed eyes regarded the seat before him with such dissatisfaction that the burns had not been healed from the night before. Marluxia was cruel enough not to allow him that receipt. The image of him, belly-down on marble was still clear in my mind. It had haunted me the entire night. It had probably haunted Lexaeus, too, for I had told him every detail. We both came to the conclusion that something had to be done.

"Please," I asked again. "You should at least lie down."

"Forget it," he said abruptly, his voice choked. "Forget what you saw. Forget it ever happened."

I folded my hands, trying to be calm about the whole thing. I knew that tone of voice—he was wounded and humiliated. "I would if I could. Your loyalty to him is disturbing."

One of his shoulders twitched, as if throwing something off. "Didn't you hear what he said? I'm not with you. If you defy him, he will destroy you."

"With what?"

"With…with…" He couldn't finish the sentence.

I tilted my head to regard him closer. "What does he have to control me? Powers? I have those, too. Allies? Do not forget that I am clearly in the Superior's favor. Marluxia had no footholds in this Organization. _What_ did you think you were doing by going to him? You gave him something to control—a puppet within the elders." The distain was clear on my face, regarding him coldly. "What must I do now? Forsake you? Let him consume you as is obviously his intent?"

Vexen's skeleton stared at the floor somewhere near my feet. I couldn't tell whether he was listening or not. I presumed it didn't matter.

"We have always been the three of us. You, Lexaeus, and I. And now…how is it that you run from us?"

"I don't know, Zexion."

I ran my tongue over the front of my teeth, watching him. He was so broken. "Fear."

His eyes flickered up, purged of lifelessness and now harboring vehemence. "What?" he hissed.

"You are afraid, Number Four," I said. "You fear Xemnas. You fear Marluxia. You're a coward, Vexen." I shook my head to repeat myself, more gently. "You're a coward."

Vexen's black-cloaked chest rose and fell with each passing breath. For a while, all that could be heard was the soft chirp of leather. Then, quietly: "I am not a coward."

I just stared back at him. I had known this man for years of my life. Fifteen? Twenty? And there was absolutely nothing to prove me otherwise. What Vexen's collective life had taught me was this: intelligence did not make for a brave, admirable man. Intelligence made for lovely reports and concrete theories. Intelligence could be looked at from afar with grace and respect. Intelligence was the gold leaf atop the rotting wood underneath. What Vexen lacked was a spine.

"You are," I smiled back. A sweet, small, condescending smile. From a mouth that had always been tipped with icing hues and laced with the glow of rain came the ugliest, most vile smile. It spread across my face unstoppably, mocking.

Vexen clenched his fists, still stiff from the pain all along his back. "I'm _not_ a coward. I'm not." For the first time, he did not resort to raging at me. Instead, he whirled straight around and stepped through a portal.

I never saw him again.

* * *

Vexen got home at around ten that night. After explaining at length to Dudley exactly _why_ he had been gone so long, he found it appropriate to locate a cup of coffee and sit back to assess exactly what it was he was going to do. Dudley allowed him privacy for that night, albeit grudgingly.

Demyx was out there. Somewhere, perhaps nearer than he seemed. On a different world, yes, but how hard was it _really_ to break through the darkness? As Nobodies, they had done it as if it were the simplest thing in the world. It couldn't, therefore, be impossible by any means for someone with actual, practiced technology to do so.

This required him to sit and remember. His old research had been long forgotten and lost. All the documents and papers had been destroyed with Castle Oblivion. But, perhaps, he could remember some of the mechanisms he studied…

It was an unpleasant evening to have to recall it. Rain was tapping at the window, meaning there was a downpour somewhere out in the dark night. But Demyx was so sincere, so frightened. It was the least he could do to at least _try_. No promises, but he could try for just a little while.

But with the thought of Demyx came the thought of the others. It had always been a possibility to consider that a good portion of them had somehow survived, if not all of them. And that thought alone was enough to send shivers up and down him. He didn't want to think. It was like knowing there was a spider somewhere in the room, but not having the guts to go and look for it, lest you find out how big it really was…

* * *

There was a downpour in California. The four travelers sat huddled under a shrub.

"This sucks," someone said.

"I know," someone answered.

* * *

There were several days in which no one found a clue of who resided on that world. Larxene and Xigbar drank plenty of Coca Cola and Zexion was quickly reading up on the practice of 'McCarthyism.' Marluxia was searching desperately, almost ready to break into a police station and demand records at gunpoint. The shard _should_ have brought them as close to the resonance as it could. A former member was in their midst. But where?

There were to ways to find someone who was lost, Marluxia had determined: either go to them, or let them come to you.

Passively, they stood on street corners and watched the people walk by. It took hours of time but, as Xigbar had put it, "it beats actually having a job."

Actively, they reached toward the media of the world. It was almost overbearing and seemed to be abuzz with constant news. But the only thing in the headlines were bolded cries of 'Communism' and 'Red Scare.' Some other land called the 'USSR' was somehow a threat, they gathered. But, even in reading each paper religiously, there were no names they recognized. Zexion was recruited to dig deeper, trying to analyze each detail for hidden meanings or some trace of the former Organization. He got off having to stand on street corners all day this way.

Xigbar frequented the movies when he could. "They got aliens, dude!"

Larxene fanned their tickets out so they could see. "It's really going to be nice to sit back and relax for once, don't you think? This world is huge! Come on, Marluxia, you need to take a break or you'll work yourself to death."

"No thanks," he murmured, crouched down to read a scuffed-out flyer on the sidewalk. "I'm not here to have fun."

Curling her lip, she grudgingly turned to Zexion. "We have an extra ticket. If you want. I guess."

"No. Really, I don't want to waste my time." 'Aliens' were never his thing. Besides, as the designated newspaper-reader, he had a stack of nearly a half dozen to still go through for names and clues before Sunday rolled around.

So Marluxia and Zexion went back to the small diner on the corner street, across from the bank. It was their home base, really. It wasn't as though they didn't have a place to stay stay. What money they had (most of which came from Xigbar) was spent on food and two rooms at the motel a few blocks down from the center of town. Though they only frequented it to sleep and shower—for the most part, they spent their time in the city.

"What are you going to do when you find him?" Zexion asked, not looking up. He had been in the habit of being able to talk while reading for years now and he was not about to waste that skill.

Marluxia solemnly shrugged. "I don't know. I wish I knew."

"It might be important to think about. So you don't stand there like an idiot."

"Thanks, Zexion."

"You're welcome."

All their searching stopped on that following Tuesday afternoon. Marluxia had taken to the sidewalk, eyes flickering around for anyone recognizable. He felt himself step on something almost slippery. In the middle of the sidewalk, he bent down to pick up a crumpled magazine with the heading in bold, melted green letters: 'ALIENS?'

Marluxia frowned, flipping the worn, crinkled pages through his fingers. He'd seen so many of these magazines, though none of them had bothered to open one and read them. It seemed silly looking for former Organization members within the pages of a fiction load of babble. It was akin to looking for a fish in a pond. Though perhaps he should bring this back to the diner for Zexion to read. He was running out of newspapers, reading them faster than they could print them.

He turned on his heel and began to make his way back, casually flipping to the first page to skim. What Marluxia saw, however, stopped him entirely. Magazine still clutched in his hands, he fell to his knees. The people walked around him on the sidewalk, as if trying to pretend he wasn't there. He couldn't move.

* * *

Larxene sat back in the booth, chewing on a toothpick. "'Dr. Punice Jones, Dr. Franklin Woodicker, Dr. Vexen Dunner, and their team at the California Institution of Astrological Sciences are working on a top-secret government-funded research project to communicate with aliens from a planet in the Nebula galaxy.'" Non-plussed, she pulled the magazine away from her face and gave Marluxia a look. "Oh, yeah. That sounds like Vexen alright. Always after aliens…"

"It's a satire magazine," Zexion was quick to chime in, grabbing it from her. "Obviously, none of this is real."

"Except that name." Xigbar licked some whipped cream from the cherry that had topped his milkshake, and in a second, the cherry was no more. "That ain't no goddamn coincidence, huh, Pinky?"

Marluxia was as silent and drawn as any of them had seen him.

Larxene gave him a concerned glance, reaching over to rub his forearm. "Honey, you haven't touched your curly fries."

They all had an idea of what was going on inside his head. He'd been looking for three years and now…it was over.

"C'mon. Why don't we go look down at this institute place? We should have no problem dragging some information outta those people," Xigbar offered, ever-reasonable.

Zexion barely listened and was already up at the diner counter, swinging his hips like a proper seductress. "Excuse me," he waved down the man behind the counter. "Do you have a phone book I could borrow? Please?" The amount of sweetness in his voice made his companions roll their eyes. The acting was brilliant, though. In no time, the schemer had a phone book almost as big as his old lexicon on his lap and had it open. His curved finger triumphantly pointed to the name 'Vexen Dunner.' "There. His address and everything." Glancing around once to make sure no one was looking, he ripped the page out and thrust it into Marluxia's hands. "Now go. You had better find a map, because you're going to the suburbs tomorrow."

* * *

It was exactly 9:45 AM when Vexen heard the knock at the door. He put down his newspaper and tied his bathrobe more securely around his waist. Tucking the paper under his arm, he padded down the front hall to open the door.

Marluxia couldn't force anything out for a minute. The dry California dust clotted his throat. It made his voice come out drained. "Hello."

Vexen promptly shut the door.


	16. Bound With Vinegar and Brown Paper

Vexen panted, sliding down to the ground, his back against the door as if to keep it closed. There was a few seconds of confused silence between both men on each side of the door before there was a hesitant, disembodied knocking. Vexen physically flinched.

Outside, Marluxia stood frozen, his hand still raised, poised to knock again. It felt like he was being wrung around the gut with a clothesline. Every second pulled him tighter and tighter into despair. Vexen had just shut the door on him. Just _shut the door_. And what if he wouldn't come out? Had he just lost his chance? Had that been it—one second, one millisecond of seeing Vexen's horrified, blank-staring face before it was gone?

Vexen had his head pressed to his knees, finger curled around the doorlock. He tried to rationalize the possibility that he had actually gone insane and was hallucinating, but the moment he had calmed down enough to actually begin _thinking_, there was a voice:

"Vexen, please open the door."

The scientist pressed a hand to his forehead, only to realize that he was actually sweating. Maybe if he stayed silent enough for a long time, the other would go away.

"Vexen, I know you're there," Marluxia's faint, muffled voice pleaded. "I know you're there, so stop hiding. It's ridiculous." There was a scraping noise against the door, revealing that Marluxia had slid down to sit against it on the other side. They were back to back, a door between them.

"Leave me alone," Vexen breathed. "Please, just turn around and pretend you never saw me here."

"I can't do that."

"Why are you doing this?" He nearly shouted. "Why are you even here? Why now? Why _you?_"

Marluxia stared up at the blue California sky above him. "I'll tell you if you let me in. Don't just leave me out here."

"I'll leave you wherever I feel it fit to leave you," Vexen said, venom in his voice. Already, not a minute after they'd first looked at each other and they were arguing again, as if years hadn't passed between them. If anything, the time had only made the gouge between them even deeper, a festering wound that had failed to cauterize. They were each other's infection.

"Let me in," Marluxia demanded, his voice lowering in pitch to become that regal, authoritative tone.

Vexen fell stubbornly silent.

The assassin rested the bridge of his nose against the heel of his hand, as if stifling a headache. "Please," he groaned, now regretful. He was so tired. "Please, Vexen, just let me—" Quite suddenly, he fell backwards, landing ungracefully on his back to look up at a pair of distant, green eyes.

Vexen gripped the doorknob. He was scowling, pale features drawn. "You have five minutes to explain yourself. I'm timing you." With that, he lifted his wrist to set his watch. It gave a brisk chirp to signal that Marluxia, quite frankly, was fucked unless he could come up with some very convincing evidence for his case in five minutes (of which precious seconds he was wasting lying on his back in Vexen's doorway, looking like a stunned, spread-eagled parrot).

Marluxia rolled over onto his hands and knees and then picked himself up, finally, to stand before Vexen, face to face. He hardly could bother with his own expression, which was somewhat dumbfounded. The scientist looked better than he'd ever seen him—his hair was pulled back into a band at the base of his neck, removing the veil that he used to hide behind. His cheeks had filled out and his eyes weren't so sunken. He looked…healthy. Well-fed, well-rested, well-dressed, and, not surprisingly, he looked beautiful.

"Four minutes and fifteen seconds," Vexen reminded him, ice layered in his tone.

"Vexen," Marluxia blurted, "Stop this at once. I need to talk to you. Seriously."

"And I'm letting you talk. Four minutes and ten seconds."

"Vexen!"

"Four minutes and eight seconds."

"_Vexen!_"

"Remarkable, Eleven, you really do know how to waste time: four minutes and five seconds…"

It was too much—Marluxia grabbed Vexen's hand to force the watch down from his face. All at once, he said, "After I died for the second time, I was reborn and I had a heart. And for the first time since I was a somebody, I felt regret and I felt lonely. And no matter what I did or how I tried to distract myself, all I could think about was _you_. You, who hated me and who I treated as a pawn, because you _were_ a pawn. And yet here I am, Vexen. I've searched for three years through every world I possibly could to find you and tell you what I think about you, only to have that door slammed in my face. I don't want you to sleep with me. I don't want you to forget about what I've done. I've spent three years for five minutes with you. Powers," he shook his head, disbelieving, "I've spent three years for two words: I'm sorry."

Vexen just stared. A car went by outside. The sound of it invaded the front hall; the door was still standing open.

"I'm sorry," Marluxia repeated, face hard and strained, as the words physically hurt him to say. "Or are you going to correct me and nitpick to say that it's three words, hmm? 'I _am_ sorry?' Is that what you're on about?"

The watch went off, blaring in rapid succession. Vexen didn't even fumble to turn it off—it hung on his wrist, which was limp at his side.

Marluxia glanced at the watch once, trying to keep himself from wavering. "Five minutes. I'll keep my word." With that, he turned around and left the house, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Larxene pulled the toothpick out of her mouth to lean backward on the counter and check the clock. Marluxia had been gone for over an hour.

"Well…at least he's not back yet. That's gotta count for something," Xigbar said as he pulled one corner of his sunglasses down a fraction to regard the clock as well.

"Unless he's already dead," she sighed. "That's a possibility."

"We'll never find the body," Zexion murmured.

"Oh, listen to you," Larxene regarded the schemer, toothpick pointed defensively. "You think you know so much about the situation. As though you and your basement giant actually knew what was going on topside."

"We did," Zexion shot back. "We knew all about it. Don't pretend like it was a secret."

Larxene narrowed her eyes. Then she slowly nodded her head. "That's right. You did know, didn't you? I forgot—this whole thing was your fault anyway."

"_What?_"

"Hey, sit down, kid." Xigbar put a hand on Zexion's shoulder to pull him back down into his seat. The red leather squeaked indignantly.

The nymph just let her eyes sparkle. "What? You knew. If you hadn't been so nosy, Marluxia would be on top of the worlds right now and he would have left you alone as long as you stayed out of his way. Instead, we're all dead."

"We all have hearts," he muttered in return. "We didn't die."

"That's not what it felt like when we were sitting in darkness, waiting for it to put us back together. I bet you liked being cast into a world where all you can do is lie there and remember. I bet you had a lot of fun."

Xigbar, gave her a warning glance behind his sunglasses. "Larxene. Don't go there."

"What really gets me," Zexion gritted, "is that you seem to think that this whole situation falls on _my_ shoulders. I had nothing to do with it…"

"You said you knew Vexen had fallen into Marluxia's hands. You didn't do a damn thing."

"What was I supposed to do?" Zexion stood up again, ready to run right out of the diner. "I had a position to run, rankings to consider. Loyalties and strategy and—"

"Yeah, and he was your _friend_."

Zexion's eyes fell harshly upon Larxene's. "We were Nobodies. We don't have friends or loyalties to individual—"

"Oh, yeah, and Saix and Axel were just around each other because they liked the company," she rolled her head back, knowing she had the stronger case.

"Don't you dare compare me to those two traitorous—"

"She's right," Xigbar nodded his head at Larxene. "She's right, you know."

Zexion sat down hard, staring at him. He could barley believe he was hearing this, from _Xigbar_ of all people. The man was supposed to be on his side. Elders should have been sticking together, even in this mess. They should have…they should have…

"Nobodies may not be able to make friends or nothing…but Ienzo and Even went way back. Hell, Ienzo and Braig went way back, too." He grinned out of the corner of his mouth. "And I'll tell you what: that means something. To both of us. You should be helping Vexen now like you should have helped him before. Two lifetimes with a person is a little hard to ignore."

Zexion looked at the ground. There were straw wrappers curled in the corners between the booths and the stools, scattered beside rogue fries. It was such an odd place for any of them to be, and yet here they were, together after all. He didn't know what it was about these people that fate had kept dragging them along with him. Maybe if they traveled long enough, they'd find all twelve of them again (only twelve, because Roxas was never to be seen again) and it would just add to the mystery. How were they drawn together like this, lifetime after lifetime?

Xigbar put a hand on his shoulder. "He's a friend, whether you want to believe it or not. And so am I. And maybe Larxene, except on some days of the month."

"Watch it."

"See? We got something that counts. If we could all be 'pals' _without_ hearts, just imagine what we can do _with_ them."

* * *

"Wait."

Marluxia turned around, surprised. He was halfway down the driveway, and his hands would have been shoved into his pockets if he were the type of man to take that sort of slouched posture.

Vexen stood in the doorway, his watch still beeping in irritation. The expression on his face was reminiscent of one who vaguely remembered that they may have left the oven on. He didn't know why he had opened the door and called out to the man that had been ruining his life and his dreams and his journal for years, but letting him walk away left too many questions. Especially after he had said those two little words. Because Marluxia had never apologized. Not really.

Had he changed that much? It seemed too much to ask that a heart bestowed upon him, not only emotions, but a full-functioning conscious, equipped with regret and guilt. Maybe he had just gained better acting skills.

"Sorry, I could have sworn you said something," Marluxia murmured, looking at Vexen oddly. The man hadn't moved or said anything and that silly watch was still screaming.

"I…I did," he recovered, finally lifting his wrist to press frantically at some buttons (because no one really knew what buttons pertained to what on their watch—most people just toggled around and hoped they get the desired effect and, in the case that the desired effect was reversed or somehow made worse, toggling some more always helped). Finally, he managed to shut it off and look back up at Marluxia. "You said you were sorry."

Marluxia gave a half-shrug, indicating that much was obvious.

"You _never_ say you're sorry."

"I rarely ever actually mean it, too," he said.

It took Vexen a moment, but he shuffled aside. "Come in."

"But you said I only had—"

"You proved your case, you nitwit, now come in before I slam the door on your nose for _good_."

Thoroughly provoked by the offer (though it actually sounded more like a demand), Marluxia quickly made his way up the driveway. He felt Vexen's eyes on him the whole way until the door was finally shut behind him.

"I'll put on the kettle," he said, obviously regarding Marluxia as nothing more than a temporary issue. "And I need to get Dudley."

"Dudley?" Marluxia asked, looking around the front hall. There was a generic painting hung by the stairs. The welcome mat at the door failed to say 'welcome.' Peering into a nearby room, he saw a study with various awards hung on the wall. It was all very neat and intentional in its arrangement.

"Dudley," Vexen said, walking into the kitchen. "He's mine, he lives with me."

That sounded quite wrong in Marluxia's ears. And, as nervous as he was, he jumped to the worst conclusion possible. "You're…you're in a relationship?"

The scientist gave him a flat glare. "Don't be daft," he said. "Dudley is my dog." As he said that, he opened the back door.

Marluxia had to physically brace himself from being bowled over by a blur of blonde fur. Indeed, the golden retriever wriggled in circles around Marluxia's legs, amiable regardless of the fact that he had never seen this man before in his life. The assassin just raised his hands, not willing to touch something that he really couldn't make heads or tails of.

Vexen looked up from where he was filling a kettle at the sink. "Pet my dog," he ordered, annoyed.

At least there was no 'other man,' Marluxia decided. He reached down to try petting the dog that was still weaving around his legs, and ended up missing half the time, but at least recoiled with a fair amount of slobber on his hands. He looked up for approval.

Vexen was leaning against the kitchen counter, watching him silently. He actually appeared fairly amused. "What?"

"I think I need to wash my hands."

Vexen pointed to the sink.

"So," Marluxia went to run his hands under warm water. "Why…a dog?"

"Why not?" He said. His eyes were half-lidded and looking affectionately down at Dudley, who had come to sit expectantly at his feet. "They are loyal. They are unconditionally loving. And, most of all, they are one hundred percent obedient." Vexen sent a pointed glare in Marluxia's direction. A dog really was the perfect companion for him. Dudley treated him like God, and he liked it that way; no messy emotions or arguments. And no one to hurt him.

The water boiled and Vexen set the table for tea, letting Marluxia take a seat across from him at the table. It was like old times, almost. Except Vexen had the upper hand. "Now," he said. It was not a suggestion. "Explain yourself."


	17. This Is The Man All Tattered and Torn

There was a knock at the office door. Lexaeus looked up. "Come in."

Arthur Luft pushed his way in, arms laden with snow-speckled parchment packages. His hair was flecked white and the rush of cold air flowed into the room almost immediately. He set the packages on Lexaeus' desk. "Here, I just got back from the market. I have a whole nickel left!" He outstretched a mittened hand to show it off.

"Keep it," the officer said, waving his hand casually. "Go buy yourself a hotcake when the snow stops. There's a vendor down a street."

"Gee, Mr. Officer Thompson," Arthur said. "That's awful nice of you." The packages tumbled over the moment he let go of them, saved from actually ending up in a pile by a quick motion from Lexaeus.

"Are you sure it's okay that I stay another week?" he asked. "You're not gonna make me pay you for rent, are you?'

"No, as long as your sisters are okay with you staying, you don't have to worry. And I won't make you pay me."

"Wow," he said, eyes wide. "Anything else you need me to do for you?"

"Go tell Officer Mohr that I need to talk about his patrol schedule in a half an hour."

"Sure!" The boy scampered out, still clutching the extra nickel in his hand.

Lexaeus turned back down to his desk, shuffling parchment-bound groceries around. The boy had been working diligently for him for a week, and he'd grown pleasantly accustomed to it. Though he was terribly aware that he was lonely, he seemed too old to find any romantic company with Arthur. That seemed perverse, something which Lexaeus was not.

Everything always came back to Zexion. Though there was nothing to say that he was even alive, he somehow felt as though the other was watching his every step. He hoped that his charity would be approved of, even though he figured the schemer would not have extended such a hand to an unfortunate soul. Perhaps he had been a little selfish, and perhaps Lexaeus had liked him that way.

He had to keep telling himself that Arthur was not a replacement, and he never would be. But he was a companion, someone who would talk to him, confide in him, maybe even need him. Without that, Lexaeus felt useless.

* * *

"I can't believe you." Vexen shook his head after Marluxia finished explaining. The tea had gone cold in their palms, as neither had the stomach to finish it. "You're mad."

"Look," Marluxia said. "Things _changed_. With hearts, things became different, don't you see? I became different and I just…here." He pulled a folded, faded letter from his pocket and flattened it out on the table before handing it to Vexen. "I wrote this. To…to remind me of you."

The scientist frowned as he accepted the paper, taking a moment to send a puzzled glance over at Marluxia before he actually held it up to his eyes. They traced across the page, line by line, expression fighting to stay blank as the other simply sat and watched. In the end, he just set it gently down on the table. "You've grown sappy."

"You used to like it when I was sappy."

"I used to tolerate you when you were sappy."

Marluxia didn't really know where to go from here. He'd planned out every strategy possible to get from world to world; he'd mastered the art of tracking people down. He'd rehearsed the first words he had wanted Vexen to hear from him, and he'd even promised himself that he wouldn't fight back when the other man attacked him. He had been ready to just stand there and close his eyes to take the blows, restrained, like Vexen had been so long ago. An eye for an eye.

He hadn't expected the man to invite him in and shove that cup of tea at him. Now he was quite lost. Part of him wanted to feel accomplished and was ready for a nice, solid pat on the back. The other part of him knew he wasn't finished yet. Not by a long shot.

"So…so how have you been?" he ventured.

"No," Vexen snapped, holding up a hand. "Don't start with me."

Feeling kicked, Marluxia shut his mouth. The clear role reversal was not particularly settling to him. But he deserved it—by darkness, he deserved it and he knew he did. Admitting it to himself was the first step.

"You said you had others with you."

"Yes. They're in town."

A finger went to Vexen's chin as he thought over this. "How many others?"

"Xigbar, Zexion, and Larxene."

The scientist visibly bristled, though at which name was rather hard to tell. None of Marluxia's companions were upright, when it came down to it. They'd all somehow found a way to wrong him. He sighed and pushed up from the table. "I don't suppose I could hit two birds with one stone, could I?"

Marluxia's eyes followed him. "How?"

"I…I found Demyx. Or, rather, he found me," Vexen admitted. "He's trapped on a world not too far away, it seems. He somehow managed to send a transmission into this world. Through the darkness, around the darkness…I never got to study how he did it, only that he did."

"That's new," Marluxia murmured, brows knitting a fraction. He didn't like that someone had gotten to Vexen before him.

Vexen faced him fully, speaking with a clipped tone. "You will leave this world and go fetch him. Save him from his lonely world and let me get back to work. I have a life. I'm _happy_, Marluxia. Without you, I'm happy. Two birds, one stone."

Their eyes locked, and it took everything Marluxia had not to let his expression fall. It was clear Vexen wanted him to break—was daring him to break—and suddenly, it was Marluxia with the plastic bag over his head. It was Marluxia who was standing on the ledge with cold hands poised to push. And as the teapot came down, he understood, now, his retribution.

"More tea?" Vexen asked. "Or shall I put the kettle away?"

"I'm fine," he murmured. "But I should tell you…I can't leave this world with resonance pulling at it. This means…you have to come with us."

Vexen shot a sharp look over his shoulder. "What?"

"Your resonance, as I explained, is what pulled me to this world. It will keep pulling. You have to come with us."

There was a moment where Marluxia was sure he wasn't going to survive until morning. Vexen nearly dropped the teapot in the sink, his face a picture of cold disbelief. "No," he said. "No, you're not taking me away from here. You're just going to have to find some way of getting out of here without me, because I'm not, _not_ leaving this world." He came forward, shoulders tense. "I have a house. I have a boss that respects me at a job that I enjoy. I have coworkers that like me, Marluxia. They actually _like_ me. I have a dog that I adore. I have a _place_. I'm not leaving."

Marluxia really didn't know what to say. For a brief second, he was glad for Vexen. But what little joy there had been was soon overshadowed by the realization that he would be the one to force him away from his life. By coming to see him again, he was ripping away everything the man held dear. Callous, unthinking, selfish, as usual. It was more disaster than he'd ever planned on. What had he been thinking? Of course…he'd hoped that maybe, just maybe, Vexen would have missed him. Needed him.

That was not true. Not in the least.

"I'm sorry," Marluxia murmured. "I'm so very sorry."


	18. There He Kept Her Very Well

After a little wringing of terms and rules, Vexen allowed the group to come stay in his house. Under the condition that they were not to touch anything (and he meant _anything_) and that they would move on as soon as possible. And that was how Larxene, Xigbar, and Zexion all ended up peering curious past the threshold of Vexen's doorway, as if afraid it was somehow rigged to slaughter them as they stepped foot inside.

Vexen turned the corner, a box of pillows and linens in his hands. He looked at them curiously, as though this wasn't the first time he'd seen them in three years. "Don't stand there gawking. Get inside before you let the bugs in."

Larxene was first to enter, now just staring at Vexen. "You look good," he said, raising an eyebrow. Here he was, sweater vest and stockings, and he was not the same skinny scientist she used to adore zapping in the corridors just to hear squeal. He looked as though he could snap her neck if she tried it now.

Before she said another word, Dudley also rounded the corner, tail flopping and tongue lolling out to greet the trio.

Zexion visibly flinched and backed away, holding his nose. Oh, powers…he hadn't had issues with allergies through this whole trip, but this might prove to be more than difficult for his sensitive nose.

Marluxia was already helping Vexen set up a few spots in his living room and den for them to bed down in that night. Well, really, Vexen was just throwing sheets and pillows at him and Marluxia was doing all the work. He had finally managed to retaliate with some subtle glares at the scientist's back as he turned around. He hadn't gotten the gall to actually give him attitude to his face for fear of actually getting kicked out of his house for good, but it didn't mean he liked being treated like a servant. This wasn't what he had traveled so long and far for…

Xigbar strode into the kitchen, immediately looking around. "Hey, long time no see, dude. Got any food?"

"Seriously?" Zexion narrowed his eyes at the offending man. "You don't walk into peoples' houses and ask for food."

"You do if you're me. And if it's Vexen's house." He grinned at the scientist.

Vexen did not smile back. "If you want supper, I suggest you make some yourself. There are some canned items in the pantry with which I'm sure you can figure out something." He was being terribly kind as it was…

"We should play a game while Zexion cooks us something," Larxene suggested. "Do you have cards, Vexen? I know a great game with cards…"

Sighing out his nose, Vexen pushed past Larxene to grab a deck of cards in one of the nearby cabinets. He used it to play solitaire often. "Don't bend them. And you're not allowed to eat with them or anything—you could get the edges greasy." He tossed them down on the coffee table near Marluxia and started back upstairs with the empty box.

"You're not gonna play with us?" Xigbar asked, already diving to be the dealer. "Jeez, you suck as a host."

Zexion popped his head around the pantry door. "Vexen, you should stay and play. Etiquette demands that you not sulk while you have guests in your house—"

"_Fine_," Vexen gave in, tossing the box aside and trudging over to the coffee table to sit between Larxene and Xigbar. It was a clear table, revealing the fact that Dudley was very much curled around Marluxia's knees. For a moment, he almost smiled, but then remembered that it was Marluxia, and so proceeded to frown. "What game?"

The group proceeded to flip cards onto the coffee table, grunts of triumph and frustration ringing out as Zexion read the back label on a cream of mushroom soup can, stirring at the concoction that the recipe had said would turn out. It smelled good, at least, and for a moment, he observed peace. Xigbar, Larxene, Marluxia, and Vexen, all shuffling cards and strategizing against each other. For a brief moment, Vexen even genuinely laughed as Xigbar made a particularly irresponsible play. It was a good moment in time.

After the timer went off and Zexion called them away from the game, Larxene set the table and they all sat down…well, near the table. There were only two chairs, so they just ended up sitting on the ground next to the table, leaned up against the wall or against the legs of the chairs.

* * *

"Braig, you're getting on my nerves," Even said, fingers curved over a blunt probe. His patience was as thin as his lips, which he had pulled taught against his teeth in a prominent, though delicate, frown.

"Dude, you sat down next to me," Braig warned, still plucking feathers from an unfortunate turkey. They blew in the lab's dry air over into Even's spot where lay a precious human heart, half-dissected. "Just pick around them."

"I'm taking pictures later," the blonde snapped. "And it will ruin my pictures because everyone knows hearts do not have _feathers_." He blew a long, infuriated sigh out of his nose before jerking his chin toward Braig's work. "Why are you even doing that? Did you steal it from the kitchens?"

"Yeah, but that's not the point. Just gonna open up the skull is all. See what's inside. Do a little compare, contrast; all that stuff Master Ansem likes."

"You're better off reading a book for that sort of thing."

Braig looked amused at the suggestion. "Oh, yeah? Think you can teach me a thing or two? As if. Not like you've been here any longer than I have."

Even put down his tool and swiveled in his chair to face Braig, face completely straight. "As a matter of fact, I _can_ teach you plenty. If you'll only listen, which you won't."

Opening his arms, Braig invited him in, "I'm all ears, Princess."

Perturbed, but not taking the bait, the scientist thought for a moment. The trick with Braig was to give him something slightly entertaining to muse over, as well as important scientific facts. And while Even thought just about everything scientific was relevant and interesting, he didn't think the other would respond well to conversation about theories regarding fin formation in early fishes. Instead, Even began, "You know nerves, when stimulated, do not interpret the different kinds of stimulus they receive, right? They just signal whatever part of the brain they are associated with to impart the knowledge that they've been stimulated and the brain interprets the rest. Well, that's the reason that when you press on the side of your eye hard enough, the nerves that are stimulated to impart color to the brain are fired. And, thus, you see colorful dots."

Braig immediately put his finger to the side of his right eye. "Like this?"

"Yes," Even nodded, hands folded in his lap

Tongue stuck from the side of his mouth Braig huffed, poking at the corner of his eye. "It's not working…"

"Press harder."

And that was how it happened.


	19. Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary

Despite everyone being so 'cozy' in Vexen's house (they'd actually determined that sleeping arrangements were cramped and uncomfortable, even when Vexen wasn't there, as he had his own bedroom to himself and Dudley), there was soon talk about what was going to happen next. Because Marluxia, Larxene, Xigbar, and Zexion were staying in Vexen's house over his dead body.

"I say you pick up all your items and go to meet Demyx," the scientist said over a cup of coffee, trying to be diplomatic. "He'd love to see any of you, I'm sure."

"We can't," Marluxia sighed, after having explained this too many times. His head hurt and no matter how far he dug his fingers into his temples, it didn't seem to be helping. "You have a resonance to you. My shard is drawn to you—if we go into the darkness, we'll be pulled right back here."

"Can't we just build some sort of device to block my resonance?" Vexen said, as though it were the simplest thing in the world. Really, didn't any of these people have brains?

"Do you really want us in your house for that long?" Xigbar retorted.

"Touché."

"Look," Zexion said, trying to be reasonable. "Why don't you come with us for now? When we get to our goal, then we'll find a way to get you back here. You can return to your old life easily."

Persuasive and reasonable as the schemer was, Vexen knew exactly what he was playing at. "You just want to find Lexaeus. What: I travel worlds with you until we pick up all our members? Must I _really _tolerate seeing Xemnas again? Because it sounds like this 'resonance' theory of yours means we won't be able to control where that shard takes us until we finish collecting everyone."

It was true, and Zexion was not pleased with Vexen being able to refute him. He pursed his lips. "We're stuck here if you don't come with us. And I'm sure we'll be able to come back when we've finished. And who knows—maybe Xemnas is already dead. Then he won't have a resonance for us to follow and it won't be a problem."

"Basically, you have to come with us," Larxene said, bored with this debate. There was only one real answer, in her mind. "Whether I come in the night an hog-tie you, you'd better—"

Marluxia clamped a hand over her mouth, dreading a reaction from a pissed-off Vexen. "Please, I think we all agree…to be very, very nice to you if you come with us." Maybe bribery would get the scientist to agree. "Xigbar will not make fun of you. Zexion won't argue with you. Larxene won't fight with you—"

"And you won't rape me?" He narrowed his eyes at the assassin.

A sudden unnatural tension settled on everyone. After all this time, no one had uttered a word of what Marluxia had done to Vexen, even though everyone knew…and to hear Vexen voice it himself had Larxene's eyes darting to Marluxia, nervous.

The assassin himself only pressed his lips together, meeting Vexen's eyes, equally serious. "And I won't rape you."

There was a strained moment between everyone until Xigbar took it upon himself to clear his throat. "Hey, yeah, let's play nice, kids. We can handle settling down."

"And I'm not leaving without Dudley. So my dog is coming with us."

Zexion opened his mouth to say something, to argue, most likely, but Marluxia stuck out a hand to hold him back.

"No," the assassin said, still staring at Vexen. "Take him with us. Whatever to make you comfortable."

His small battle won, Vexen looked around the circle once and then nodded his head. "Fine. I'll go with you on this little journey. But I'm coming back here when I'm done. And I have some unfinished business at work, so if you don't mind…" He stood up, gathering his keys and wallet off the table. "I'll trust you not to wreck my home while I'm gone. It should only be a few hours." Just enough to speak with his boss.

"We'll be waiting here. Can we leave tonight?"

"Yes, yes, whatever works." He murmured. The sooner, the better, he supposed. Get it all over with. While he would have rather just stayed a home, he had an obligation to get these people off his property, and if traveling with them for a while was the only way to do it, then so be it.

Vexen didn't say anything to his boss. Instead, he just picked up the last of the records from Demyx. In case he needed it. It seemed like he was closest to this world, and if Marluxia's theory was, indeed, correct (Vexen couldn't believe that would ever be the case, but here he was), then Demyx would be the next person they would see. And he was alone.

Back at the house, Xigbar was discreetly raiding Vexen's cupboards of supplies while Marluxia brooded, twirling the shard in his fingers. Larxene sat near him, watching and waiting. Vexen had agreed to come with them, and perhaps it would give the assassin another chance at doing things right this time.

"Marluxia," she cooed, quiet enough so that Zexion couldn't eavesdrop from where he was scanning through Vexen's many awards. "You've apologized to him. He's accepted your apology, baby…why are you still so unhappy?" She knew why, of course. But he needed to say it.

The man shifted in his seat, putting the shard back around his neck to hang there. "He hasn't forgiven me, Larxene. He's just using it as fuel so he can…give me a hard time. He wants more."

"Give him more, then," she murmured. "He wants you to hurt for your past 'sins.'"

"And he couldn't even care about you," Marluxia said, almost humored. Larxene had been right there next to him with her sadistic giggles and cruel imagination. "How is it that he wants to hurt me and he couldn't care less about what you did to him?"

She shrugged one shoulder, the strap of her top arching over the skin for a moment. "I think he had a soft spot for you. After you finished fighting and he…accepted you, I think it's just…one of those habits."

"Always creatures of habit," Marluxia murmured, eyes staring past the table.

"Always."

Just then, Vexen opened the door, carrying an armful of files with him. Dudley got up with a yip to greet him, tail wagging. The scientist scanned the others as he pat his dog on the head. "I'm back. We can leave soon. These are…on Demyx." He raised the files up for the others to see.

"Kiddo's out there?" Xigbar asked, perking up. He hadn't forgotten about Demyx, no. The two of them were like peas and carrots once they'd gotten over their initial wariness of each other. "Kiddo's out there? What are we even waitin' for then? We have to get him, the poor guy."

"He's been alone all this time, too," Vexen murmured, putting down his bag. "I'm sure the sooner we get moving, the…better." As loathe as he was to pick up and actually leave this place, he had never had anything truly against Demyx. With a heart, it did make him a little worried about him having to endure all alone.

Larxene piped up, coming to stand in the middle of the kitchen. "I don't want to wait anymore. Marluxia, get your ass over here. We need to get in a circle and hold hands and all that."

Vexen made a face, finding himself caught between Zexion and Xigbar. The latter took his arm a little too roughly, and Zexion's fingers were too cold. Vexen bent down and took Dudley into his arms, picking the retriever up as blonde fur went flying. He found himself staring across the circle at Marluxia, who was staring back.

"Don't let go while we're in the darkness," the assassin instructed, speaking mostly to Vexen. "It will feel strange, but don't let go."

Everyone took a collective deep breath, whether they realized it or not. When Marluxia held out the shard, Vexen was watching closely, seeing it for the scythe it used to be. It crashed them into a realm where he could see nothing but the claws of resonance itching at him. Dudley was trembling in Vexen's arms, but the scientist would not let go of him, even as everything fogged over.

* * *

"Water helps."

"It's not medicine, Demyx, don't…pretend like you've got some medical healing powers."

"I'm not," the water mage said, using his hands to sooth over the angry red marks that sprawled over Vexen's back and sides. Though the scientist refused to be naked in front of anyone, he had his shirt pulled up to his chest and was resting on his stomach across a couch. "How did he do this to you?"

"Teapot," Vexen muttered.

"Oh…" Demyx winced, but kept the water flowing cold, cycling it over the burn and through his fingers again to keep any mess from being made. Though he was a little absent at times, he had good control over what he did.

A silence spanned between them. Demyx felt awkward, but Vexen just didn't want to talk. He'd only come to him because he had been too ashamed to go to anyone else.

"Shouldn't your ice be able to help? I mean, ice on burns…"

Vexen stared into the pillow under his chin, answering as a machine might. "Ice only damages the skin further. Direct application should be avoided."

"Oh." Demyx fell quiet and thoughtful. He'd always just thought that Vexen was cranky only as a put-on. To scare people away. A little affection, even for a nobody, might help more than anyone realized.

Vexen's eyes snapped open as he felt the delicate pressure of a kiss upon the small of his back, placed carefully outside of the burned, red ring. He got up on one elbow to glance over his shoulder, brows furrowed, to see Demyx looking back at him.

"A kiss," the musician stuttered, suddenly intimidated by those eyes. "It's…supposed to help with the pain."

"Do not do that again," Vexen said, expression fixed and displeased. "Again…don't pretend as though you have healing powers."

* * *

The world opened up in the middle of a dense, man-made jungle. Trees grew out of cracks in carved, intricately pattered stones where ruins were the ripples under their feet. Marluxia let the shard drop. "We're here."

"Is this Demyx's world?" Xigbar asked, looking around and beginning a foray into the jungle. "Depressing place."

"It seems so. He spoke of things left behind by people, but there were no people left. I would imagine this is the place." Stepping around some vines, Vexen examined carvings half-hidden by moss. Where were they? It had definitely once been a civilization.

"Plenty of bugs," Zexion frowned, smacking at a fly of some sort as it tried to land on him. This world was hot, humid, and looked as though absolutely no one was here.

"Demyx would have left signs of being here. We should walk for a while and see if we can't find any footprints or disturbed area."

"He's also expecting us," Vexen reminded, finally letting Dudley down on his paws once he'd stopped shaking. The dog kept close to his owner, anyway, though, and understandably so. Nothing here was welcoming.

As they began to march forward, Xigbar spoke up. "You said he's been in contact with you. Shouldn't his world have a little more technology?"

"He didn't say anything about technology," Vexen said. "Not in the way we think of it. Something tells me 'magic' plays a large part in how he was able to contact us. The ruins should have something to do with it."

Dudley at their heels, they moved through the archaic remains of a people long-gone. And the one person left was surely around there somewhere.


	20. His Name Is My Name, Too

Author's Note: Thank you so, so very much for everyone who has been reading and reviewing. I know I don't answer reviews or questions, but mostly that's because I don't want to spoil anything for anyone! Yes, I'm still writing, and you have been great readers. With that said, please enjoy another chapter:

* * *

There was a black spot on the floor. Just a little, inky dot. It grew bigger in a minute, and in another minute, it was the size of a quarter. Like some two dimensional object suddenly becoming three-dimensional, the dot spread upwards, forming a mound that simply became larger, more shapely, until there was something vaguely familiar about it. It grew into the shape of a person.

This was how all Nobodies got their start. Of course, in their Somebody lives, they started as a fertilized egg, a zygote, that grew into an embryo and then a baby, as most people. Nobodies, however, didn't really grow from anything. Just the womb of darkness. It was hard to distinguish who this black form was supposed to be for a moment, but then the darkness cleared away, and two eyes, two ears, a mouth, and a nose appeared.

The door to the chamber was opened and Vexen stepped closer to the figure as the last wisps of darkness slunk to the far corners of the room. He said nothing, only snapped white gloves on up to his wrists. Dirty blonde hair, medium stature and build, blue eyes, slightly big ears. Vexen noted it all down on a clipboard.

The moment the Nobody obtained feeling in his arms and legs, he groaned and sunk to his knees. He was naked, cold, and had no idea where—or who—he was.

Vexen scoffed. "Oh, get up. You can't be so pathetic, can you?"

"I feel like jelly," was all the Nobody said. "Lots and lots of jelly."

"I need to measure how tall you are. So unless you want to be 50 cm, it would do you good to stand up," the scientist instructed.

Mumbling, the Nobody pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, and then got shakily to his feet. He noticed his hands like that—his hands were bigger than he remembered them being (not that he actually _remembered_ anything yet), and he also knew what people said about big hands. Hopeful, he glanced a little farther down his own naked body, but was disappointed to find that his hands seemed to be the only thing that really got a whole lot bigger. Drat.

"Chin up," Vexen reminded, lips pressed thin as he noticed the Nobody scrutinizing himself. "Back straight." He pulled out a measuring tape and let it down to the ground, taking down the height. Then the rest of the measurements started, needing to get a rough idea of what kind of clothes they needed to get the new nobody.

Things started coming back to him as Vexen worked around his fidgeting. Myde. His name had been Myde. And there were many things that swam back into his head, mostly words he used to say, people he used to love, and a few embarrassing moments that he actually wished he'd forgotten about. But among the muddle of reverberating memories that weren't as important to who Myde has become, there were a few things that defined him.

Music. Ah, yes, he remembered that. He remembered why he knew his hands so well: he saw them often as he put them against the keys of a piano or as they trilled upon the brass buttons of a horn. He couldn't remember an instrument he hadn't played at least once, at least to say he'd done it. Music came from his heart; it was the fuel that made every note he played sound genuine, unrehearsed, and clear. His heart was his metronome, his reservoir of creativity.

"Where am I?" Myde asked, turning to look at Vexen properly. The man looked tired and unpleasant.

"It doesn't matter," Vexen answered. He wrapped the measuring tape around Myde's waist.

"What happened?"

"Don't dwell on the questions. Now is not the time to ask them." Usually, Vexen liked being a know-it-all, but the Nobody was naked and he had a schedule to keep to. No time for lengthy explanations. He'd have to keep it brief if he wanted to explain anything, Vexen knew by now that he simply couldn't _do_ that.

"My name's Myde," the Nobody said, reaching a hand out to Vexen.

Vexen flinched at the sudden movement, then grabbed the hand and stiffly placed it back at Myde's side. "No it's not. Stop fidgeting and let me work."

Frowning (oh, yes, he remembered how to make expressions, too), Myde stood still.

A few minutes later, Vexen stepped back, scribbling the last few remarks on his clipboard and sighing to blow a few strands of hair out of his face. Non-life really was a disaster. "Come with me, then. We'll get you dressed and get you a name."

"But I already have a—"

"Hush." Boots patting against the tile floor (followed by the slapping of bare feet), Vexen took him outside the chamber. It was dark out there and Myde felt his eyes to wide trying to see. He was still struggling to make out the shapes of a desk and chair and cabinets while the scientist was already rummaging through drawers and flipping through files.

Not a moment later, the sound of heavier boots could be heard coming down the hall.

Vexen was already grimacing. "Oh, for the love of…"

The door to the laboratory swung wide open and a peal of light flushed into the room. Xigbar stood in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob and one eye falling on the now illuminated naked form in the middle of the laboratory. For a second, he thought it was Vexen and had so many questions. But Vexen would have been screaming and throwing things at this point, and this boy was just staring at him like a deer in the headlights so…it had to be a New One. "Whatcha got there?" He asked.

"Oh, good," Vexen drawled, turning toward the door and trying not to wince at the light. "I need you to—"

"Oh, no," Xigbar said, putting his hands out in front of him, as if to prevent Vexen from getting ideas. "No, no. I'm not going to—"

"—just this once! You can stand to actually do me a favor, Number Two!"

"Get on your knees and then maybe we can talk about favors…"

"_Xigbar!_"

"What?"

Vexen stomped a foot on the ground, startling the new neophyte. "You're taking him to Xemnas."

For the sake of not starting a way, Xigbar finally gave in. "Fine, fine…" He stepped into the room, mostly just to get a better look at the new kid. He was cute. Kind of a twink. Sure, he'd take him to Xemnas. Maybe even take him under his wing. "You got a name there, Sparky?" He asked, coming to put an arm around the Nobody's shoulders.

Hesitant, Myde looked over to Vexen, remembering what he'd said. The scientist was glaring, so he thought it best to follow what he'd been told. "N-no?"

"No? Well, then I'll just call you 'Sparky' then, huh? Good name for now." He steered Myde along, headed for the door. "But the guy we're going to go see right now? He's going to give you a new name…"

He was named 'Demyx.'

* * *

Once Demyx had shattered into millions of pieces, it had taken a long time for the darkness to put him back together again. And yet, within the first few moments of regaining his heart and realizing that he was alive, the first thing he felt was _despair_. Because when he lifted his head and looked around, there was no one else there.

The first night Demyx spent alone in the hazy ruins of that abandoned world, he hadn't been able to sleep. He cried on and off, screamed to try and get the attention of any survivors left over, anything to get him out of there. But even running off into the surrounding jungle would only have him right back where he started, and he didn't know how that was even possible. It didn't take long for him to figure out that the place was steeped in magic—nothing Demyx cared to spend a long time trying to comprehend, as it was better left to people who had a passion for getting lost in their own mind.

Demyx was without company, without music. Just a small stream that trickled through the ruins and the rocks that glowed blue when he touched them in the right order. There were dozens of different symbols and carvings that it had taken him hours upon hours of looking at to get some semblance of meaning from them. And from what he could tell, this place had once been used by people to communicate off-world. It seemed so hopeless for him, though: every time he tried to venture out in a straight line, it was only minute before he was standing in the middle of the ruins again. Trapped in a world that had no beginning or end, no sense of space.

At a loss for anything to do all alone, he made a small wooden flute. Well, he actually made several, but he was clumsy and they often broke when he tripped or dropped them on accident. But most of the time, he kept himself busy with reedy melodies that drifted off into the silent, humid air around him, going nowhere and heard by nothing but his own ears. He was really, really very alone.

After speaking to Vexen, though, there was a small ray of hope. Someone out there had heard his voice and, after so long, there was a chance. Just a little chance that he might not have to spend eternity on his own. And so he waited. Vexen had made him that promise and he'd latch onto that promise.

Hours and days slurred together, and sometimes he swore he could have dreamed half the things that happened to him here. Demyx had been sitting cross-legged and staring at the ruins (as he usually did) as a blonde dog ran into the clearing. Immediately, he knew something was different, because never in all his stay here had anything moved besides him—no animals, no insects, even. As the retriever came right up to him, tongue lolling, Demyx was too excited to even breathe. "H-hey!" He said. To be honest, he would have been ecstatic for just a dog to keep him company, but as soon as he heard human voices, it was just too much.

"You came!" He cried, as he caught sight of the human forms walking through the reed grass. Before he knew who it even was, he was barreling at full-force toward them, needing to touch them before he could believe they was real.

Vexen recoiled a little, not liking the prospect of being bowled over, and, luckily, Xigbar was there to step in.

"Hey, kiddo," he said giving Demyx someone to jump at. Impressively enough, Xigbar was able to catch him, too, despite obvious lack of depth perception.

"I can't believe you're actually here!" He said, eyes lighting up as he finally felt a solid body right there. No hallucination or dream. Vexen had kept his promise, and apparently brought friends. "I can't believe it. Someone pinch me, I can't believe it's really—_ow!_ Larxene!" Demyx rubbed at his arm.

"Sorry, couldn't resist," she simpered.

"Zexion!" Demyx reached out for the schemer, looking like he wanted to pull him in for a hug. But Zexion wasn't as happy to see Demyx as Demyx was to see him, and he ducked and sidestepped discreetly. The musician grabbed at an armful of air as Zexion kept his composure a few feet to the left.

"Yes, it's nice to see you again. I'm sure we'll have…plenty to catch up on," he said, not wanting to include himself in any sobbing or hugging fest that would follow. Doubtlessly, Demyx had been severely lonely, perhaps even severe enough to have gone a little insane with hunger for company. Zexion took it upon himself to watch for signs of clinical mental illness. It was the least he could do.

"Wowie," Demyx continued, near pulling at his hair as he turned from one familiar face to another. "Just…wow…"

"We will explain all that we can to you," Marluxia told him. "And we're going to get you out of here. Don't worry." Still holding the shard, he felt his heart swelling a little—of all the people he had found, he felt like this was the most touching. Demyx really had needed them and they had rescued him from solitude.

* * *

Demyx became a functioning member of the organization. He was a petty neophyte and no one seemed to trust him with any difficult tasks, but he soon became integrated.

The heart was a special thing, though. To Demyx (or Myde, rather), the heart was the place where a person lived. All inspiration came from that one spot inside of him, where his personality and joy concentrated. No matter what Xemnas told him…no matter what Vexen or Xaldin or Zexion claimed…his heart was still there. Not because he could feel, no. But because he still had his music.

Demyx knew darkness did not control his music like it controlled his water powers. Myde had never felt a connection to water, but the way Demyx played that sitar had spirit, which Nobodies weren't supposed to have. It was only logic, wasn't it? The others scoffed at him when he told them, but when he was alone in the evenings, all it took to make him feel like a Somebody again were a few clear notes.

Music was his heart, and even being turned into an empty shell couldn't change that.


End file.
